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On the Times Commonly Presented for Birkat HaL’vana: Part 1

On
the Times Commonly Presented for Birkat HaL’vana: Part 1
Avi
Grossman
 
Abstract
 
Typical
Jewish calendars list two particular z’manim for “the
first time that one may begin to recite kiddush l’vana (or
birkat hal’vana).” The first is referred to as minhag
yerushalayim
or minhag haperushim, or simply “the
three-day minhag,” and the second time, to wait for seven
days to pass from the start of the lunar month to recite the
blessing, is attributed to the Shulhan Aruch. These two times are
calculated as exactly either 72 hours or 168 hours after the average
molad of each Hebrew month. These positions do not truly
reflect those of our sages, nor of the Rishonim, and nor of the
Shulhan Aruch. The usual shul calendars,
like the Ittim L’vina calendar and the Tukachinsky calendar,
mislead the public with regards to when the earliest time for saying
the blessing really is. The issue is based on a number of fallacious
calculations, including misapplying a chumra of the Pri
M’gadim regarding an opinion of the Rema to an opinion of the
Shulhan Aruch, and assuming that the
Shulhan Aruch completely dismissed the
halacha as described by the Talmud in favor of a later, kabbalistic
opinion. The purpose of this article is to argue for a reevaluation
as to how the typical calendars present these issues to the laymen
and to call for a more accurate presentation of the z’manim
as understood by Rishonim like Maimonides.
Introduction
If
you take a look at the usual Jewish calendars, you will find that
every month two particular z’manim are presented for “the
first time that one may begin to recite kiddush l’vana (or
birkat hal’vana).” The first is based on the writings of
the Vilna Gaon, and referred to as minhag yerushalayim or
minhag haperushim, or simply “the three-day minhag,”
and the second is attributed to Rabbi Yosef Karo, the author of the
Beth Yosef and the Shulhan Aruch, who was
usually referred to by the name of his former work. The Shulhan
Aruch makes mention of waiting for seven days to pass (ostensibly
from the start of the lunar month) to recite the blessing. These two
times are calculated as follows: exactly 72 hours (3 times 24 hours)
or 168 hours (7 times 24 hours) after the average molad of
each Hebrew month, the molad that is announced in the
synagogue before each Rosh Hodesh and used to calculate when each
Tishrei is to start, thereby making it the basis for our set
calendar.
It
is my goal to show that these positions do not truly reflect those of
our sages, nor of the Rishonim, and that Beth Yosef himself actually
held like the majority of Rishonim, while his seven-day minhag
is also misrepresented in the printed calendars. The usual shul
calendars, like the Ittim L’vina calendar and the Tukachinsky
calendar, mislead the public with regards to when the earliest time
for saying the blessing really is. I have tried to speak to the
publishers about this issue, but to no avail.
Talmud
And Rishonim: Birkat Hal’vana Ideally On Rosh
Hodesh
Rabbi
David Bar Hayim maintains that the monthly recitation of birkat
hal’
vana
should, in accordance with the plain meaning of the Talmud and the
opinion of the rishonim, ideally be on Rosh Hodesh, and in the event
that that cannot be done, as soon as possible thereafter. See here.
His first proofs are the most elegant.
 
“Whoever
recites the b’rakha over the new moon at the proper time
(bizmano) welcomes, as it were, the presence of the Sh’khina
(Sanhedrin 42a). What does bizmano mean if not that one
should strive to recite this b’rakha at the earliest
opportunity? In a number of manuscripts we find a variant reading –
“Whoever recites the b’rakha for Rosh Hodhesh…” – which
leaves no room for doubt as to R. Yohanan’s
intention.
 
It
should also be noted that throughout the rest of the Talmud, “z’mano
of the new moon is the night it is supposed to be sighted, i.e., the
first night of the month. He also points out that
The
Talmud Y’rushalmi (B’rakhoth 9:2) speaks plainly of reciting the
b’rakha at the time of the moon’s reappearance (HaRo’e
eth HaL’vana b’hidh
usha).
This is also the very deliberate wording of both Halakhoth G’dholoth
and Riph (Chap 9 43b). This expression can only be understood as
explained above.
 
This
is also the language utilized by Maimonides and the Shulhan
Aruch, and will become crucial when we seek to understand the opinion
of the Beth Yosef. Rabbi Nahum Rabinovitch,
the math professor turned Rosh Yeshiva, also told me that such is the
halacha, and it is proper to make others aware of this. There is a
group called the Israeli New Moon Society that keeps track of the
sightings of the new moon and publishes online guides for amateurs
who wish to spot the new moon. The society enjoys Rabbi Rabinovitch’s
support, and he used the society’s founder’s diagrams in his own
commentary on Maimonides’s Hilchot Kiddush
HaHodesh.
This
position should come as a surprise to many. In America, the
prevailing practice is to wait specifically for after the Sabbath,
while here in Israel most are used to hearing about the three-day or
seven-day customs.
We
should begin our discussion with the relevant Talmudic sources, YT
Berachot 9:2 and BT Sanhedrin 42-43, which state that one has until
the sixteenth of the month to recite birkat hal’vana. The
running assumption of the rishonim and logic is that the assumed
first time to recite the blessing is right at the beginning of the
month, similar to the obvious point that if one were told to perform
a commandment in the morning and that he had until 9am, then it would
be understood that he can start doing it when the morning starts.
After all, is he supposed to do it before the morning, while it is
still the preceding night? This position is explicit in Rashi’s
comments to the gemara, the Meiri’s explanation thereof, and in
Maimonides’s codification of the law (Berachot, 10:16-17), but is
also the only way to understand the halacha unless other
considerations are introduced. A simple reading of the both Talmudim
indicate without a doubt that the blessing is to be recited on Rosh
Hodesh. Rabbi Kappah, in his commentary to the Mishneh Torah (ibid.),
writes that this is and always was the Yemenite practice. Note also
that this halacha makes no mention of the molad or of any
calculation concerning the first time for reciting this blessing,
because as one of the birkot har’iya, it only depends on
seeing something.
I
believe that Hazal instituted this blessing specifically for the
first sighting of the moon because, once upon a time, the Jewish
people joyously anticipated the first sighting of the moon. The
Mishna in Rosh Hashana (chapter 2) describes how the Sanhedrin
actually wanted to encourage competition among potential witnesses!
Jewish life once revolved around the calendar, which itself was not
predetermined. Thus, every month, Jews throughout ancient Israel and
the Diaspora were involved in keeping track of the sighting of the
new moon, as it affected when the holidays would be. Imagine not
knowing during the first of week of Elul if the first of Tishrei was
going to be on Thursday or perhaps on Friday some weeks later. It can
have a major effect on everyone’s holiday plans.
However,
most of the calendars do not take into account when the actual first
sighting of the moon will be every month. Instead, they follow a
different interpretation of a view cited in the Beth Yosef, thus
presenting a first time for birkat hal’vana
that is sometimes as many as three days after the actual first
opportunity.
Massechet
Sof’rim And Rabbeinu Yona: Other Considerations
 
Rabbeinu
Yona (attached to the Rif’s rulings at the very end of the fourth
chapter of BT Berachot, page 21a in the Vilna printing, and cited by
the Beth Yosef to Tur Orah Hayim 426, garsinan
b’
masechet sof’rim;)
describe
s three ways to understand what Massechet Sof’rim
meant by not reciting the blessing ad
shetitbassem
.” Evidently, his version of Sof’rim was
different from ours, in which the first line of chapter 20 begins
with “ad motza’ei shabbat, k’shehu m’vusam.
This verb, titbassem, is from the root b-s-m, and like most
future tense forms with the prefix tau but no suffix, it can
either have a second-person masculine singular
subject (in this case, the one reciting the blessing), or a feminine
third
-person singular subject (the moon). Rabbeinu Yona
rejects the interpretation that it means to wait until Motzaei
Shabbat, when we recite the blessing over the besamim, because
Saturday night and Sunday have nothing to do with Rosh Hodesh more
than other days of the week. Our Rosh Hodesh is actually distributed
perfectly evenly among the days of the week. That is, one out of
every seven days that we observe as Rosh Hodesh is a Sunday, and
waiting for Saturday night every month can often considerably delay
the blessing. What if Rosh Hodesh was Monday? Why wait practically a
whole week to recite birkat hal’vana? The idea does not fit
with the typical halachic principle of trying to perform a religious
function as soon as possible.
Rabbeinu
Yona does not then entertain the reading of Sof’rim we possess,
which offers a different connection between the root b-s-m and
Motza’ei Shabbat, but instead offers his own interpretation: that
the moon should look like a canopy.”
If only about a 90 degree arc is visible, it is a stretch to say that
it looks canopy-like, but if it is closer to 180 degrees, then it
looks like what he is describing. This opinion was apparently not
accepted by any subsequent scholars, because it finds no mention in
subsequent literature. Lastly, Rabbeinu Yona offers his own mentor’s
understanding, and this is the basis for all later misunderstandings:
titbassem refers to the light of the
moon being significantly sweet,” a
state that it only achieves two to (or
‘or’) three days” into the new lunar cycle. He uses
intentionally vague language, because no
two months are the same. By the time the moon becomes visible for the
first time, it could be that the molad
itself was anywhere from approximately twelve hours to 48 hours
before that, and each month has its own set of astronomical
conditions that affect this.
[1] The possibilities are endless, and there is no objective rule for
determining how much time the moon takes each month to get to the
stage Rabbeinu Yona’s mentor describes, and that is why he used the
vague terminology
two to three days.”
More importantly, the
two to three days”
statement is just an example of how long it takes, but the underlying
rule is when the light becomes
sweet.”
I
will give an analogy.
Rubin
wished to buy a silver goblet from Simon. Simon asked Rubin for $200
in exchange for the goblet. Rubin, searching through his wallet,
realized he had not the cash, but he needed the goblet very soon.
Turning to Simon, he said, Right now, it
is about 9:30 Wednesday morning. I need this goblet at lunch today,
and if you give me two to three days to come up with the cash, I
would be grateful.” Simon agreed, because he knew that Rubin was
going to go back to his own business selling tomatoes and shoes, and
that sometimes he did not work Fridays, and the odds were good that
Rubin would have enough left after sales and buying his children
snacks to pay Simon. Now, we would all consider it perfectly
reasonable for Rubin to come back to Simon Thursday night at 8pm, or
Friday morning at 10am, or right before Shabbat, or even right after
Shabbat, because in languages like 13th-century Rabbinic Hebrew and
Modern Hebrew and English, two to three
days” or two or three days” allow
for all of those possibilities. The halacha also allows for that.
Thursday evening is at the end of two business days, right before
Shabbat is at the end of three, and right after Shabbat is the end of
the third day from when Rubin asked for more time. But all can be
described as having as taken place two
to three days” from when Rubin made his request.
Back
to the moon: it seems that in every subsequent work you can find
(with the very important and critical exception of the Beth Yosef),
the opinion of Rabbeinu Yona’s mentor is referred to as Rabbeinu
Yona’s opinion,” even though he offered
one that actually differed from that of his mentor, and it is
inaccurately reported as “waiting for three days after the molad,”
taking out the critical two or/to.”
Even later, it is further transformed into waiting until after three
full days have passed, i.e., at least 72 hours. This
evolution is clear from reading the sources as they appear in the
halachic record in chronological order. This is unfortunate and also
illogical, because we saw above that the whole idea of two
to three days” is only offered as a way to describe how long it may
take the light of the moon to become sweet.”
It could actually vary, because the sweetness is the point.
A
typical example was Rosh Hodesh Adar 5777,
when both the mean molad and the
actual molad happened
early Sunday morning, e.g. between 4 am and 9 am, the moon
was
not visible Sunday night, nor visible all Monday during the day, but
Monday night, after sunset, which is halachically Tuesday, the new
moon became visible to most people, assuming cooperative weather
conditions. Thus, it takes two to three
days,” i.e., a vague window of 26 to 72 hours, for the new moon to
show up after the molad. In our
case, it took most of Sunday, all of Monday, and just the beginning
of Tuesday, about 40 hours later, for the moon to reappear. Rabbi
Rabinovitch’s son, Rabbi Mordechai Rabinovitch, pointed this out to
me some years ago. The idea that miktzat hayom k’chullo,
that a part of the day is considered a full halachic day, is well
grounded in halacha. To sum up, Rabbeinu Yona did not mean three
days, in every single situation, no matter what,” and even if he
had said that the underlying rule is to wait three days from the
beginning of the cycle, why did later authorities add that at
least” modifier?
The
Beth Yosef and others who came after Rabbeinu Yona mentioned that the
new lunar cycle officially starts with the molad. Now, the
molad as discussed by the
authorities is just an average; the actual conjunction is usually a
few hours before or after it. It takes some time after the actual
conjunction for the new moon to become visible. Enough time has to
elapse from the conjunction for the moon to be both objectively large
enough to actually be seen and far enough from the sun’s location
in the sky for it not to be out shone. The first time any moon is
visible is usually after sunset the day after the actual molad,
and sometimes only after the sunset two days after the molad.
In practice, it is usually impossible to see the new moon on the
halachic day of the molad or on the
halachic day after the molad. Only
on the third day, which starts at sundown concluding the second day,
is the new moon visible.
[2]
This
is the first premise of the misunderstanding: the actual first
sighting of the new moon will, in the overwhelming majority of cases,
satisfy Rabbeinu Yona’s rule as actually stated, but if one were to
decide to wait to recite the blessing the maximum interpretation of
three days” from the molad,
and only decide to use the mean molad,
which has no actually bearing on the reality of the moon’s
visibility, then he would wait 72 hours from that molad,
and in the vast majority of months the end of that 72 hour period
will either greatly precede the next possible citing of the moon or
just miss that sighting. Because the new moon is visible for a few
minutes to an hour and a half or so after the sunset, if those 72
hours do not terminate around then, one will have to wait for the
next night to recite the blessing. In our example above, such a
person would wait until Wednesday morning between 4am and 9am to
recite the blessing, when the moon by definition is not visible due
to its proximity to the sun, and then be forced to wait even longer,
until Wednesday night, which is halachically Thursday, in order to
recite the blessing at the first
opportunity”! Thus, he has delayed the recitation two full days! It
gets more extreme, when for some reason, the calendar invokes the
(not so talmudic) rule that the blessing not be recited on Friday
night even when it is the first
opportunity,” pushing off the blessing to Saturday night, three
days after the true first opportunity.
[3]
Why
would anyone do such a thing? Who would read Rabbeinu Yona such a way
and then rule that normative practice should follow it? The Beth
Yosef himself does not subscribe to Rabbeinu Yona’s rule to begin
with.
The
answer is the Pri M’gadim, but first some more background.
The
Last Time For
Birkat Hal’vana
According
to BT Sanhedrin (ibid.), the last opportunity for the birkat
hal’vana
is the 16th of the month. Now, the Gemara is speaking
quite generally. It assumes that a month is 30 days long, thus making
the 16th night the beginning of the second half of the month, and
usually marking the point that the moon is beginning to wane. Indeed,
in deficient, 29-day months, it makes sense that the last opportunity
should be the night of the 15th. The Beth Yosef (ibid., uma
shekathav rabbeinu w’
hanei shisha asar”)
makes note of this and other similar issues, and then notes that
there are more exact ways of determining the midpoint of the lunar
month.
That
is, the Talmud gave a very imprecise sign for determining when the
moon is no longer waxing, but leaves room for more precise
calculations. The Tur, (ibid.) for example, mentions that the true
last time for the blessing is exactly half the time between the
average moladoth, what the pos’kim
call me’et l’et
(literally, from time to time”), and
often meant to mean exactly 24 hours after a certain event. In this
case, it means exactly half the time between the moladoth,
[4] which, as pointed out by many commentators, can actually fallout
before or after the 16th (or 15th) night of the month. This is the
opinion adopted by the Rema (Orah Hayim 426:3) for determining the
final time for the blessing. The Beth Yosef (ibid.) mentions an even
more exact determination of the middle of the lunar month: the lunar
eclipse, which by definition occurs at the exact midpoint of the
month.
Presumably,
in a month absent a lunar eclipse, the midpoint of the month could be
calculated by studying the actual moladoth
before and after that month, and there are now many free computer
programs that can easily do this. The Shulhan
Aruch thus rules that one can stick with the most inexact calculation
(Orah Hayim 426:3), but the Pri M’gadim (Eshel Avraham 13 to
Orah Hayim 426) declares that just like we, the Ashkenazim, follow
the Rema, who said that the yard stick for measuring the last time of
the blessing is
me’et
l
’et, exactly half the time between
the average
moladot,
so too, with regards to the first time of the blessing, the practice
is to wait three days
me’et
l
’et, exactly 72 hours, from the
molad, before reciting
the blessing!
The
Pri M’gadim makes no explanation as to why that should be so, and
it is especially hard to justify his claim, as the first time for
saying the blessing should strictly depend on the first sighting of
the moon, whereas the final time for the blessing should depend on
when the moon is full. Further, the Rema himself made no actual
mention of when he believes to be the first time for the recitation
of Birkat Hal’vana, and without this interjection of the Pri
M’gadim, one would figure that the Rema holds like the implication
of the Talmud above, that the ideal time for the blessing is on Rosh
Hodesh, or at least perhaps when Rabbeinu
Yona says it should be.
Despite
this, the Pri M’gadim’s opinion is mentioned by the Mishna Berura
(426:20), and that has ended the discussion for the calendar
printers, despite the fact that it was clear for millennia before the
Pri M’gadim, who was born in 1727, that the first opportunity for
the recitation of this blessing should not be delayed. After all, how
many of us ever delay the blessing over seeing the ocean or
lightning? Further, one cannot derive that there is a both a rule as
to how luminous the moon needs to be and about how Saturday night is
ideal because they are mutually exclusive, alternate readings of the
same line in Sof’rim. The whole idea that the authorities ever
accepted that the moon needs to be a minimum size was never fully
accepted, and even if there were those who subscribed to Rabbeinu
Yona’s vague position, none of them
before the Pri M’gadim assigned a
strictly quantifiable time period to that standard.
We
now need to address the following questions: 1. If it is clear from
the Gemara and Rishonim that the blessing should be recited as soon
as possible during the lunar month, why did Rabbeinu Yona’s novel
opinion gain so much support? 2. Why has this opinion of the Pri
M’gadim become so popular? Does it not misunderstand an opinion
that itself should be discounted?
In
Maaseh Rav 159, it is recorded in the name of the Vilna Gaon (who was
a contemporary of the Pri M’gadim) that birkat hal’vana
should not be postponed until seven days after (the start of the
month), nor until Saturday night, but rather “we sanctify
immediately after 3 days from the molad.” This seems to be
an endorsement of Rabbeinu Yona’s position and the source for
minhag yerushalyim, but as we have just argued, it would be a
stretch to say that it could only be understood as the Pri M’gadim
did. It would seem to make more sense to interpret this as Rabbeinu
Yona himself wrote, “2 or 3 days” which allows for periods of
time much shorter than the maximum 72 hours.
We
have thus shown that with regards to general Ashkenazic practice, the
calendars present a time for birkat hal’vana that has little
basis in the oldest sources. I have not found a single work that
takes up the problem of the Pri M’gadim declaring what the Rema’s
position is with regard to the first time of birkat hal’vana,
and the contemporary scholars familiar with the matter all hold like
the simple understanding of the gemara according to Maimonides,
namely that birkat hal’vana should be recited as soon
as the new moon can be seen, with no consideration of how much time
that actually takes after the molad. It would seem that the
calendars, if they were to be honest, would notify their readers of
when the moon is first technically visible each month, as per the
Israeli New Moon Society’s charts, which usually satisfy Rabbeinu
Yona’s and anyone who subscribes to his position’s conditions,
and then to present the Pri M’gadim’s position, and refer to it
as such.
To
be continued in part 2.
[1] See this chart.
Notice that no two months share a percent illumination, nor location
in the sky, and each has its own level of difficulty being spotted.
When two days are shown consecutively, it is because the first day’s
conditions were not sufficient for most to have actually enjoyed or
even seen the light of the moon.

[2] As pointed out on the last page of the linked file in note 1, Maimonides did feel that there was a mathematical formula for determining minimal visibility.
[3] The Mishna Berurah (426:12 and Sha’ar Hatziyun ad loc) mentions that based on Kabbala, birkat hal’vana should not be said on Friday night, probably lest reciters come to dance, However, the way the halacha stood for millennia never included this novel rule, and the prohibition against dancing on the Sabbath and Festivals is itself a Rabbinic “fence” around a Biblical prohibition, and there is a Talmudic rule that we do not make “decrees to protect decrees.” More so, even though there are still some lone holdouts who maintain that this prohibition against dancing is still in force, most communities follow the opinion of the Tosafists (Beitza 30a) that nowadays there is no such prohibition. Thus, the almost universal custom of hakafot on Simchat Torah, which, if not for the Tosafists’ leniency, would be rabbinically forbidden.
[4] 29 days, 12 hours, and 793 chalakim. Each chelek is 3 and 1/3 seconds, so 793 chalakim equals 2643 and 1/3 seconds, or about 44 minutes. The half way point between the moladot would therefore be 14 days, 18 hours and 22 minutes or so after the first molad.



PIYYUT ON THE SURVIVAL OF THE JEWS OF BRECLAV (LUNDENBURG) ON JANUARY 23, 1698

PIYYUT ON THE SURVIVAL OF THE JEWS OF BRECLAV (LUNDENBURG)[1] ON JANUARY 23, 1698
By David Roth[2]
I found a printed pamphlet in the National Library of Israel[3] entitled סליחות מה שאומרים כאן ק”ק לונדענבורג בי”א טבת בכל שנה והמאורע יבואר בתוך הסליחות …, translated as “the selihoth prayers that are recited here [in] the community of Lundenberg (Břeclav), on the 11th of Teveth every year, and the event [commemorated] will be told in the selihoth”.  The pamphlet was published in 5655 [1894-1895], almost two hundred years after the event took place, meaning that the practice of commemorating this date lasted for quite a long time, very possibly until the outbreak of World War II.[4]
What happened to the Jewish community of Lundenburg?
In the חטאנו piyyut contained in this pamphlet, we have a description of the events of 11 Teveth 5458, corresponding to January 23, 1698.[5]  On that day, the dome of the Synagogue collapsed, and the members of the community were almost killed, but they were miraculously saved.  As such, the community established for itself and future generations to fast half a day, and to celebrate the other half of the day, a construct commonly referred to as a “Purim”.  Note that this is the day after a public fast day, so by establishing this fast, the community accepted upon itself to fast half a day immediately after fasting a full day, something that is fairly unusual.  While the practice of establishing local fasts and Purim celebrations is well documented[6] and was practiced in many communities, this particular holiday celebrated in this community is not so well known.
About the order of the selihoth:
The order of the selihoth in the pamphlet is as follows:
  • The pamphlet begins with an instruction that the chazzan repeats the Amidah until מחל לנו מלכנו כי פשענו and then begins the selihoth, something that was common to all selihoth for fast days.
  • It then contains a selihoth service, including the full text of the piyyut איה קנאתך וגבורתך, the pizmon יי יי א-ל רחום וחנון, and the akeidah [7]אם אפס רבע הקן, with the thirteen attributes of mercy (י”ג מדות הרחמים) before and after each piyyut.
  • The service then continues with זכור רחמיך, until חטאנו צורינו, at which point the חטאנו piyyut, described at length below, is recited.
  • After the חטאנו, the service continues with זכור לנו ברית אבות[8], שמע קולינו,and וידוי until הרחמים והסליחות, with an instruction to continue ואל יעכב, meaning that at this point the chazzan finishes his repetition of the Amidah.
In addition to the pamphlet already mentioned, in אוצר השירה והפיוט (index of piyyutim), Davidson makes reference to this piyyut (number 8498א), and he refers to an article where this piyyut was previously published – אוצר הספרות ח”ב, עמ’ 112.  The article – entitled מקורות לקורות בני ישראל by דוד קויפמאנן, was published in תרמ”ח (1888), before the other pamphlet of the selihoth described above, meaning that it must have been based on an earlier printing or manuscript of this piyyut.  In the article, the earlier piyyutim (meaning everything prior to the chatanu) are not printed in full, but rather the service is summarized as follows:
והם הסליחות שאומרים בי”א בטבת
איה קנאתך וגבורתך, סימן ו
פזמון י”ג מדות יי יי א-ל, [סימן] פה
עקידה מצום גדליה: אם אפס, [סימן] מט
זכור: עד אל רשעו ואל חטאתו
ואחרי כך סליחה זו:
[טקסט השלם של החטאנו]
And for a rough translation of the service summary:
Ayei kinathecha u-gevorothekha – number 6
Pizmon – 13 attributes – [number] 85
Akeidah for the Fast of Gedaliah – im afes – number 49
Zekhor until el rish’o ve-el hatatho, and afterwards he says this: [the full text of the chatanu piyyut].
Based on this, we can infer that the selihoth service was originally distributed to members of the community as an insert to put in their selihoth book for yamim noraim.  Furthermore, the numbers listed in this description for the first three selihoth show that this community recited selihoth according to the Bohemian rite, one of the forms of the Eastern Ashkenazic rite.
Noteworthy observations:
The presence of one selihah, a pizmon, an akeidah, and a chatanu is in and of itself something very unusual, as usually a selihot service would have more than one selihah, and the presence of an akeidah would imply a longer selihot service since this type of piyyut is not always present in a selihot service.[9]
There are several unusual things that must be noted about this chatanu piyyut.  As discussed earlier, this community recited selihoth according to the Bohemian rite, one of the Eastern Ashkenazic selihoth rites. The existence of a חטאנו piyyut in an Eastern Ashkenazic selihoth rite is, in and of itself, a phenomenon that is worth noting.  While Western European rites recite a חטאנו piyyut at almost all occasions that they recite selihoth, חטאנו piyyutim in Eastern European rites, at least in print, rarely recite chatanu piyyutim.[10] It is surprising that somebody who is, most likely, not extremely familiar with this type of piyyut would see it fit to write one for this occasion.
Additionally, the structure of the piyyut is extremely bizarre.  In general, chatanu piyyutim repeat the phrase חטאנו צורנו סלח לנו יוצרנו after every two stanzas; in this piyyut, there is an instruction to recite this phrase after every stanza.  Furthermore, in most חטאנו piyyutim, there is שרשור (anadiplosis), meaning that the last word of each stanza is identical to the first word of the next stanza; this poetic phenomenon does not exist in our piyyut.  This leads me to believe that our poet either wrote this as a chatanu without fully understanding the structure of a chatanu, or it is possible that he wrote it as a different type of piyyut and somebody else inserted it in this place and added the refrain of חטאנו צורנו after each stanza.
The piyyut is signed “אני אלעזר הלוי אב”ד בקהלתינו ל”ב חזק ואמץ, I am Elazar the Levite, Rabbi our community L.B. (=Lundenburg), be strong and courageous.”  Although special emphasis is not given to all of the letters, the letters אבד, which in the context of our piyyut means “was lost” but can also serve as the abbreviation for אב בית דין, “Rabbi of the community”, are written as א”ב”ד, making clear that it is supposed to be part of the acrostic.  Unfortunately, I was not able to find any additional information about this Rabbi, although he was presumably the Rabbi of Břeclav/Lundenburg at the time of this event or slightly afterwards, and the אוצר הספרות article says that he was the rabbi at the time of the event although doesn’t cite a source for that claim.
Text and translation of Piyyut:
Below, I have typed up the text of the פיוט.  The אוצר הספרות version of the piyyut is unvocalized; the version in the pamphlet is vocalized, but the vocalization is at times problematic and contains obvious errors. As such, I have used the pamphlet as my base text, but corrected obvious problems to the vocalization.  I have also added notes on where I think there may be an alternative reading, and noted any major (anything other than מלא/חסר) variants in the other text of the piyyut I have available to me.  I have also added references to idioms from Tanakh and Rabbinic sources, and provided an approximate translation.
Text in Hebrew:
חָטָאנוּ צוּרֵנוּ סְלַח לָנוּ יוֹצְרֵנוּ
  אֶ֯ת יי נוֹדֶה בְּפִינוּ וּבְתוֹךְ רַבִּים נְהֲלְּלֶנּוּ
  אֲמִתְּךָ וְחַסְדְּךָ תָּמִיד יִצְּרוּנוּ
  יֵאָמְנוּ צִדְקוֹתֶיךָ אֲשֶׁר בְּךָ מִבְטָחֵינוּ
  מַה נְּדַבֵּר וּמַה נִּצְטַדָּק[11] אֶל אֱ-לוֹהֵינוּ חטאנו
5  נִ֯כְלַמְנוּ בַּעֲווֹנֵינוּ בּוֹשְׁנוּ בְּמַעֲשֵׂינוּ
  וְנָהִינוּ נָא אַל תִּזְכָּר לָנוּ אֶת עֲווֹנוֹתֵינוּ
  לְקִרְיַת נָוְךָ נַהֲלֵינוּ
  בְּךָ תוֹחַלְתֵּינוּ וְאַתָּה יי מְחוֹלֲלֵינוּ חטאנו
  י֯וֹם זֶה קָבַעְנוּ לָנוּ לְצוֹם וְלִזְעָקָה
10 חֲצִי לַיי וַחֲצִי לָכֶם[12] לְחַלְּקָה
   לְהוֹדוֹת וּלְהַלֵּל עַל הַנִּיסִים[13] שֶׁעָשָׂה לָנוּ לְתָמְכָהּ וּלְחָזְקָהּ
   לְבַל הָיָה[14] לָנוּ לְמִכְשׁוֹל וּלְפוּקָה חטאנו
   אֶ֯ל֯ בֵּית מִקְדָּשֵׁינוּ מְעַט[15] לְהִתְפַּלֵּל מִנְחָה הָלַכְנוּ בְּאוֹרַח יְשָׁרָה
   דָּפַקְנוּ דַּלְתוֹת הַבַּיִת יָבֹא אֶל הַקֹּדֶשׁ בְּיִרְאָה וּבְמִצְוַת בָּרָה
15 פִּתְאוֹם הָיִינוּ נִלְכָּדִים ח”ו בִּמְצוּדָה רָעָה[16] זוּ תּוֹרָה וְזוּ שְׂכָרָהּ[17]?!
   בְּי”א בְּטֵבֵת שְׁנַת חָתָ”ן תּוֹרָה
חָטָאנוּ צוּרֵנוּ סְלַח לָנוּ יוֹצְרֵנוּ[18]
   עֵ֯זֶ֯ר וּתְרוּפָה הָיָה לְכוּלָּנוּ
   לוּלֵי יי עֶזְרָתָה לָּנוּ
   כִּמְעַט כִּסְדוֹם הָיִינוּ וְלַעֲמוֹרָה דָּמִינוּ
20 יְהִי חַסְדְּךָ יי עָלֵינוּ[19] חטאנו
   הַ֯לְ֯וִ֯יִּ֯ם וְאַהֲרוֹנִים, וְכָל הָעֵדָה רוּבָּם כְּכוּלָּם הָיִּינוּ עוֹמְדִים לִפְנֵי הַר הַבַּיִת לַעֲרוֹךְ
תַּחֲנוּנִים
   וּבְיַד צִיר נֶאֱמָן[20] הַמִפְתֵּחוֹת לִפְתּוֹחַ בּוֹנִים[21]
   וּבְפָתְחוֹ הַדְּבִיר עָמְדוּ כָּל הָעָם לִכְנוֹס לִפְנַי וְלִפְנִים[22]
   כִּי לְכָל דָבָר שֶׁבִּקְדוּשָּׁה[23] הֵמָּה רִאשׁוֹנִים חטאנו
25 אָ֯בַ֯ד֯ הָיָה כִּמְעַט תִּקְוָתֵינוּ וּמִבְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל[24] וּמֵהוֹנוֹ כָּל אֶחָד יוּפְרָשׁ
   כִּי בְּזוּ הָרֶגַע נָפְלָה הַכִּיפָּה מִבֵּית יי וּכְמוֹ טִיט הַיּוֹצֵר הָיִינוּ רְמָס
   לֹא נִשְׁאַר מִשֹּׂנְאֵינוּ[25] שָׂרִיד וּפָלִיט רַק צָרָה וְצַלְמָוֶת יִירָשׁ
   וְאַתָּה יי בִּזְכוּת נָשֵׁינוּ וְטַפֵּינוּ הִצִּיל אוֹתָנוּ וְשָׁפַךְ חֲמָתוֹ עַל עֵצִים וַאֲבָנִים[26] וְהָיוּ לְמִרְמָס
חטאנו
   בִּ֯קְ֯הִ֯לָּ֯תֵ֯י֯נ֯וּ֯ הַקְּדוֹשָׁה קִבַּלְנוּ עָלֵינוּ וְעַל זַרְעֵינוּ
30 לִגְזוֹר תַּעֲנִית[27] בְּזֶה הַיּוֹם בְּכָל שָׁנָה וְשָׁנָה עַד בִּיאַת מְשִׁיחֵנוּ
   קְרָאנוּךָ בֶּאֱמֶת מְהֵרָה חוּשָׁה לְעֶזְרָתֵינוּ וּלְהוֹשִׁיעֵנוּ[28]
   פָּנֶיךָ אַל תַּסְתִּיר אֵלֶיךָ בְּשַׁוְעֵינוּ חטאנו
   לֵ֯ב֯ חָכָם יַשְׂכִּיל פִּיו וְעַל שְׂפָתָיו יוֹסִיף לָקְחָה
   אֲשֶׁר הִצִּיל אֹתָנוּ מִמָּוֶת לְחַיִּים מַעֲרָכָה מוּל מַעֲרָכָה[29],[30]
35 כְּבִימֵי הָמָן עָמַד לָּנוּ הַצָּלָה וְהַרְוָחָה
   עַל כֵּן קָבַעְנוּ אַחַר חֲצוֹת הַיּוֹם לְמִשְׁתֶּה וּלְשִׂמְחָה וְלִיתֵּן הוֹדָיָה וּשְׁבָחָה חטאנו
חִ֯זְ֯ק֯וּ וְ֯אֲ֯מְ֯צ֯וּ[31] לְבַבְכֶם אֶל יי אֱ-לוֹהֵינוּ
שְמַע יי קוֹל תַּחֲנוּנֵינוּ
בְּשַׁוְעֵינוּ אֵלֶיךָ נוֹרָאוֹת בְּצֶדֶק תַּעֲנֵינוּ
40 הֲשִׁיבֵנוּ יי אֵלֶיךָ וְנָשׁוּבָה וּכְקֶדֶם חַדֵּשׁ יָמֵינוּ[32] חטאנו
   רְצֵה נִדְבַת שְׂפָתֵינוּ בְּשִׁלּוּם פָּרִים
   סְלַח וּמְחַל לְכָל קְהַל הֲמוֹנִים
   וְאַל תְּבִיאֵנוּ בָּאֵשׁ וּבַמַּיִם[33] הַזֵּדוֹנִים
   כִּי שֹׁמֵעַ אֶל אֶבְיוֹנִים חטאנו
45 חַסְדֵּי הַקַּדְמוֹנִים זְכוֹר וּמִלְפָנֶיךָ רֵיקָם אַל תְּשִׁיבֵינוּ
   לְמַעַנְךָ עֲשֵׂה חִישׁ וּפְדֵנוּ
   יָשׁוּב נָא אַפְּךָ וּתְנַחֲמֵנוּ
   וְסָלַחְתָּ לַעֲו‍ֹנֵנוּ וּלְחַטָּאתֵנוּ[34]
חָטָאנוּ צוּרֵנוּ סְלַח לָנוּ יוֹצְרֵנוּ
Translation of Piyyut:
            We have sinned, our Creator, forgive us, our Maker.
   We will thank G-d our mouths and praise Him publicly.
   Your mercy and truth have always preserved me
   We rely on your righteous ways
   What should we say and how can we justify ourselves to G-d
(We have sinned …)
5   We have perished with our sins, and we are embarrassed by our actions
    And we cried out to G-d not to remember our sins
    To Your chosen place, you should guide us
    We rely on You, for You are our creator
(We have sinned …)
This day we established for fasting and prayer
10 To be divided half for G-d and half for you [to enjoy]
    To praise and give thanks for the miracles He did to support us
    So that we shouldn’t stumble
(We have sinned …)
To our Synagogue we went to pray Mincha, we went in a direct route
    We were about to go inside with fear and trembling
15 Suddenly we were, Heaven forbid, trapped in a bad trap. Is this Torah and its
         reward?!
    On the 11th of Teveth the year of Chatan Torah [5458 – 1698]
(We have sinned …)
    Help and healing was given to all of us
    Were it not for G-d we would have been in trouble
    We were almost overturned like Sodom and Gomorrah
20 G-d’s mercy should be upon us
(We have sinned …)
The Levites and Kohanim and all of the people we were standing in front of the
         synagogue to pray
     And with the hands of the reliable shepherd the keys were held
     And when they opened the Synagogue everyone stood up to go inside.
     They were first for all holy matters.
(We have sinned …)
25 We almost lost hope and at this time everyone will be separated from his wealth
    The roof of the Synagogue collapsed and we were trampled
    And nobody would have survived
    And You G-d, in the merit of our wives and children, saved us and let out Your
         anger on wood and stones and they were trampled.
(We have sinned …)
In our community, we accepted upon ourselves
30 To accept a fast day every year on this day until the coming of Messiah
    We called to You to listen to our prayers
    And to save us and listen to our prayers
(We have sinned …)
    The smart ones will thank G-d who saved us from death to life
    In battle after battle[35]
35 Like in the days of Haman he brought about a salvation
    Therefore, in the afternoon we established a feast to give praise and thanks.
(We have sinned …)
    Strong and courageously pray to G-d
    G-d should listen to our prayers
    When we pray to You, you should answer us
40 G-d should return to us and we will return, and like old He will return things to
         the way they used to be
(We have sinned …)
    Accept the saying of our mouths as if we brought sacrifices
    Grant forgiveness to all of the people of the multitudes
    And do not bring us to the destructive fire and waters
    For He hears the pleas of the needy
(We have sinned …)
45 The good deeds of the forefathers remember and do not return our prayers
         unanswered
For your own sake do, listen, and redeem us
    You should return from your wrath and comfort us
    And forgive us for our sins.
(We have sinned …)
[1] Lundenburg is the German and Yiddish name for the city, but the Czech name is Břeclav.  See, for example, here, accessed 19 October 2017.
[2] I would like to thank my Mother, Avraham Fraenkel, and Gabriel Wasserman for their invaluable comments and suggestions for this article.
[3] See here, accessed 19 October 2017.
[4] Nevertheless, I did not find any mention of this holiday in the ledger of the Hevreh Kadisha (Burial Society) of this community (Budapest – Orszagos Rabbinkepzo Intezet Konyvtara K 47), a microfilm of which is found in the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts (47032).  This is not extremely surprising since this ledger only begins with 5522 (1762), some sixty-five years after the occurrence of the miracle, but the community was certainly still commemorating these events during this time period, so it would not have been surprising if I would have found something about this holiday in the manuscript.
[5] 11 Teveth 5458 corresponds to January 23, 1698 on the Gregorian calendar.  At this point, many countries in Europe were still using the Julian calendar, according to which this Hebrew date would have corresponded to January 13, 1698.
[6] See, for example, חיי אדם, כלל קמה, סי’ מא.  See also Zunz, Ritus, pages 127-130 (131-133 in Hebrew edition) for a list of many such local holidays.
[7] The fact that the akeidah piyyut appears after the pizmon is an indication that this community recited selihot according to an Eastern Ashkenazic rite, as Western Ashkenazic rites (as well as the Lithuanian Eastern rite) always recite an akeidah before the pizmon.
[8] The presence of שמע קולינו is also an indication that this community recited סליחות according to one of the versions of the Eastern Ashkenazic rite, as שמע קולינו is not found in the selihoth of Western Ashkenazic rites.
[9] Akeidah piyyutim are generally not recited at all on fast days, or on the days of selihot up until Erev Rosh Hashanah.
[10] Chatanu piyyutim are recited in the Eastern Ashkeanzic rite at all of the prayers of Yom Kippur.  In addition, the piyyut of א-ל נא רפא is recited in Eastern Ashkenazic communities on fast days, especially the Fast of Esther or if children are ill within the community.  Aside from these, I am not aware of any chatanu piyyutim in any printed Eastern Ashkenazic rite.
[11] בראשית מד:טז.
[12] ע”פ פסחים סח ע”ב ועוד.
[13] ע”פ פסחים קטז ע”ב.
[14] במהדורת אוצר הספרות: יהיה.
[15] ע”פ יחזקאל יא:טז.
[16] ע”פ קהלת ט:יב (ובפס’ כתוב מצודה רעה עם חולם, אבל בקונטרס הסליחות מנוקד עם שורוק).
[17] מסכת שמחות ח:יב.
[18] משום מה, אחרי מחרוזת זו, ‘חטאנו’ מודפס בשלימות במהדורת תרנ”ה, וכך העתקתי פה.
[19] תהלים לג:כב.
[20] משלי כה:יג.
[21] כך כתוב, אבל אולי צ”ל לפתוח כֵּוָנִים, ובמובן המשנה תמיד ג:ו שפותח כֵּיוָן היינו לפתוח ישר = directly.
[22] ברכות ז ע”א ועוד.
[23] מו”ק כח ע”ב ועוד.
[24] במהדורת אוצר הספרות במקום “ומבני ישראל”: ומבי’.
[25] ע”פ שמות יד:כח.
[26] ע”פ איכה רבתי פרשה ד, סי’ יא.
[27] ע”פ משנה תענית טו ע”ב ועוד.
[28] במהדורת אוצר הספרות: חושה להושיענו (ולא גרסינן לעזרתינו).
[29] ע”פ שמואל א יז:כא. הפייטן מדמה את המות והחיים לקרב שעומד כמו בין שני אויבים, והקב”ה הציל אותם בנצחון החיים.
[30] החרוז ‘מערכה’ לא מתאים לחרוז ‘לקחה’ ‘והרוחה’ ‘ושבחה’.  ואם כן אולי זה לא סוף שורה, ובמקום חיתוך זה צריכים לחתוך את שורה 36 ב-‘למשתה ולשמחה’, אבל אם כן הסימטריה של אורך השורות לא הגיונית, וצ”ע.
[31] הניקוד פה יכול להיות וְאֲמְצוּ או וְאִמְצוּ.  ובמקור מנוקד וְאַמְצוּ.
[32] ע”פ איכה ה:כא.
[33] ע”פ תהלים סו:יב.
[34] שמות לד:ט.
[35] The poet is metaphorically comparing life and death to two enemies standing at battle, and G-d saves them and makes life win.



A Conversation With Professor Marcin Wodziński on Hasidism

A Conversation With Professor Marcin Wodziński on Hasidism
By Rabbi Yitzchok Frankfurter

This article appeared in Ami Magazine July 11, 2018/ 28 Tamuz 5778 and is reprinted here with permission.

This is not my first conversation with the Polish scholar Marcin Wodzinski. In 2013, following the release of his book on chasidism and politics, he visited my office together with the well-known askan Reb Duvid Singer. Today as then, my conversation with him elicits paradoxical emotions. His knowledge of chasidism, particularly its roots and subsequent development, is shockingly broad. In fact, many chasidim turn to him for information about their origins, and Professor Wodzinski’s research has saved for posterity much of that history.
Of course, the mere fact that chasidism, a vibrant Jewish movement that once thrived in Eastern Europe and Russia, has been reduced to a scholarly discipline for a Polish academician is saddening. Poland was once the center of chasidic and Jewish life in general, but it now has very few Jews living there. And it goes without saying that Poland is devoid of any vibrant Jewish culture.
“That loss,” he tells me, “is very acutely felt in Poland on many levels. One significant expression of this is the Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw. I was its head historian for some time, as well as the chief designer of the gallery that depicts the 19th century. Three years after its opening, it is now the most successful museum in Poland.”
Unfortunately, it hurts to hear that, because that is precisely what Hitler was trying to accomplish. The Nazis wanted to reduce Jews and Judaism to relics and artifacts found only in a museum, and I tell the sympathetic professor as much.
“That’s true, but I would say that Poland as a country can’t do anything about it because there are so few Jews living there. But in terms of recognizing the tragedy and the loss and as an expression of pain, this museum is extremely important. And there are many other examples of how the non-Jewish community is trying to integrate an understanding of Jewish culture into what it means to be Polish today. There are at least four centers of academic Jewish studies in the country, which is the same number that exists in Israel. Each center has many scholars who are doing valuable research and earning PhDs in the subject. These schools attract people who want to study Jewish history and culture. Many of them write important articles and books that are read by a lot of Poles.
“The Jews are not an extinct race,” he says with fervor, “and this notion among Poles is even stronger today than it was 50 and 100 years ago, when Polish culture was very antagonistic towards Jews and sought to exclude them. Today, an increasing number of people realize that you can’t understand Poland without understanding the Jews.”
Field of Study
Marcin hails from a town in Poland that is 50 kilometers away from Breslau, or Wrocław as it is known in Polish, which before the Holocaust was the epicenter of the haskalah, rather than chasidism. Yet ironically, it was the chasidic movement that drew his interest.
“Of course. There weren’t any chasidim here. The city of Wrocław is best-known for the Beit Midrash l’Rabbanim, which was part of the so-called Conservative movement. Abraham Geiger, who one of the leaders of the Reform movement, was also quite active in Wrocław for over two decades. And the Jewish historian Heinrich Groetz spent his entire academic Marcin Wodzinski accompanying chasidim at a kever. Seen in the background is Reb Duvid Singer. life at its university,” he tells me when I confide in him that given his place of birth and alma mater (he also attended the University of Wrocław), I find his interest in chasidism rather peculiar. “But there were also some important chasidic books that were published in Wrocław, such as the first edition of Kol Simchah, which is the collected teachings of Rav Simchah Bunim of Peshischa.”
“So you’re a goy,” I tease him, “born in the birthplace of the maskilim, but chasidism became your field of interest.”
“That’s right!” he replies good-naturedly. “I’m trying to bridge ideas and interests. My interest in Jewish history and culture began with Jewish cemeteries, which was very typical at the time because it was the most visible presence of both the Jewish presence and absence in Poland in the 1980s. I learned Hebrew so I could write down the inscriptions, and I was fascinated by seeing the rebirth of chasidic pilgrimages to the gravesites of tzaddikim in Lizhensk, Peshischa, Lublin and other places. Then I started researching chasidic life, which is what I’ve been involved in for the past three decades.
“Two weeks ago I published a book called An Historical Atlas of Hasidism, which is going to be very important for chasidic studies. It contains 280 pages of full-color maps and images from the inception of chasidism until today. The maps present an entirely new way of understanding the movement, and there are a lot of previously unknown historical images. The book was published by the prestigious Princeton University Press.
“I also recently published a book entitled Hasidism: Key Questions. That one was printed by Oxford University Press. That is the volume of which I am the most proud, as it summarizes my entire investigation into chasidism. It has seven chapters, each of which addresses a different central question: the definition of chasidus, women in chasidism, chasidic leadership and the role of a tzaddik, the demographics of chasidim historically and today, the geography of where they lived, the economics of chasidic life, and finally, the end of chasidus in Eastern Europe and how it moved to the United States and Israel. I put forth the argument that this shift was not only because of World War II but actually started during the First World War. The book has around 350 pages.”
“What do you think you’ve added to the understanding of chasidus?” I ask.
“There are several things that are unique about my work. First of all, I am equally interested in the lives of the rank-and-file chasidim as I am in the lives of the tzaddikim. To me, a tzaddik isn’t a leader if he doesn’t have followers. That is why I believe that much of the research so far has been misguided by omitting the tzaddik’s thousands of followers from the picture. I think it’s critically important to understand not only the teachings of the great chasidic minds but also—and perhaps more so—to understand how they reached the simple folk and affected their lives. Another innovation in my work is that I don’t just delve into intellectual topics. I also look at the social, economic and other aspects of history, which are aspects that have only been properly addressed by very few scholars. This results in an entirely different perspective.
“But perhaps most importantly, the vast majority of scholarship on chasidism has focused on its early years. We know quite a lot about the Baal Shem Tov and Rav Dovber of Mezritch, and we know some things about their disciples, but we know very little about chasidism in the 19th and early-20th centuries before the Holocaust. We know about some leaders, but very little about the lives of the chasidic communities. Both of these two recent books expand the scope of interest. I call the 19th century the ‘golden age’ of chasidism, because that’s when the number of people who considered themselves chasidim reached its peak. There were many regions of central Poland, Galicia and Volhynia [the region where Ukraine, Poland and Belarus meet] where chasidim constituted the majority of Jews, and it’s critically important to understand what their lives were like then.”
“How much of the actual Torah of the tzaddikim do you study? Is it something you consider necessary for your research, or do you completely ignore it?”
“Obviously, there are many people who are bigger experts on that than I am. I’m not even an am haaretz; I’m a goy!” he says unapologetically, “so it’s not really something for me to study.”
“So you don’t think it’s important or that you’re missing something in your research?”
“It’s obviously important, and that’s why many people study it. But I can’t do everything. I do need to understand the chasidic concepts, but I don’t study them myself; I read what other scholars have written. That’s the best I can do. I can’t be a specialist on everything. What I’m trying to do is to show that beyond Torah, there is a huge area of chasidic life that hasn’t been properly looked into, such as the relative power of individual groups. These are things that everyone would love to know. It also gives you an understanding of the spiritual leadership of various tzaddikim, because if one tzaddik has 100,000 followers, his relationship with his followers is very different from that of a tzaddik with 50 followers.
“We can also see how far the shtieblach were located from the court. For Chabad, the average distance between the court and the shtiebel was 400 kilometers, which means that the vast majority of chasidim only visited the Rebbe once or twice in their lives. For Vizhnitz, which was very strong in Hungary, the average distance was less than 100 kilometers, which means that most of the chasidim came to see the Rebbe several times a year because it was relatively easy to get there. This means that the relationship of the typical Vizhnitzer chasid and his Rebbe was very different from that of the typical Lubavitcher chasid and his Rebbe.
“Then there were courts that were even closer to their shtieblach. For example, Kretchnif’s average distance was 30 kilometers, which means that they could go to their Rebbe every Shabbos and he knew his chasidim personally. The Gerrer Rebbe had 100,000 chasidim, which means that he didn’t know all of them by face and name, with the result that the spiritual inspiration they received was different from that received by chasidim of a smaller chasidus. So while this kind of information isn’t part of the teachings of any particular group, it’s still very important to understand.
“It’s hard to summarize everything I believe I bring to the field. But as I said, I try to capture the totality of chasidic life, not just its spiritual aspects but also its economic, social and cultural ones.”
“Has your work brought you emotionally closer to the Jewish community, or is it just a field of research to you?”
“Whenever anyone chooses a field of research he feels some sort of connection. The most difficult thing for anyone to do is to decipher himself.”
“You speak Hebrew and English fluently, but in which language do you write?”
“Lately, I’ve been writing more and more in English instead of Polish because my books are addressed primarily to international audiences. But I still write articles in Polish, so I’m pretty much bilingual in my academic life.”
“Is the objective of your research to understand Poland or to understand Jews?” I ask next.
“I might be exceptional in some sense because I focus on Jewish history; I don’t research so-called Polish-Jewish relations. I’m interested in chasidism, the haskalah and Jewish cemeteries and that’s it. But I would say that the majority of scholars in Poland who are interested in Jews study the relationship between Poles and Jews.”
“As a non-Jew, are you welcomed by Jewish researchers of chasidism, or do you feel like an outsider?”
“There isn’t any bias against non-Jewish scholars in academia, or at least I’ve never experienced it. As a whole, the scholars studying chasidism are extremely openminded people. I’m very happy to be part of this community and I feel very welcome and supported both intellectually and emotionally. The research I do is very broad, so I often have to rely on support from other people, which is always forthcoming.
“I would also say that over time I have established increasingly good relations with the chasidic community and with many individual chasidim who seem to appreciate my research. A big part of the atlas in my book maps out contemporary chasidism. In order to do it I had to ask a critical question—how many chasidim are there today?—because without the answer it’s impossible to continue any further. Are the numbers bigger or smaller than before the war? Where do they live? Which is the biggest chasidic court today? Celebrating at a Belz wedding To obtain the answer, I decided to turn to the chasidic phone directories and counted the number of households. Based on the 42 directories I received I arrived at a total of 130,000, which I believe covers almost all of the chasidic households in existence today. This allowed me to estimate the demographic and geographic distribution of chasidim and many other issues, and it was only possible thanks to the goodwill of the chasidic communities that appreciated my research and shared their directories with me. I am extremely pleased to have gotten support not only from my fellow scholars but also from chasidic people.”
“Which is the largest chasidus today?”
“You know the answer to that: Satmar, with 26,000 households split between the two groups.”
 “Which is second?”
“Chabad, with 16,000, followed by Ger, with 12,000. Belz has 7,500 households. The most difficult to calculate is Breslov because they use different categories for inclusion, but I estimate them at 7,000. Sanz has 4,000; Bobov has 3,000; and another 1,500 for Bobov-45. I am very proud to have done this research.”
Bustling Centers of Chasidic Life
“Where was the center of chasidic activity in the 19th century, Poland or Ukraine?”
“That’s a very good question. I have a set of maps in my atlas depicting where the tzaddikim lived and how this changed over time. I also have a map showing 70% of all the existing chasidic shtieblach at the beginning of the 20th century. This was an enormous undertaking. I managed to locate 2,854 shtieblach, which, as I said, represents some 70% of the total during that time period. It is very clear that the cradle of chasidism was Podolia and Volhynia, which are Ukrainian territories. At the end of the 18th century it moved north to Belarus and west to Galicia. In the 19th century, the epicenter was Galicia and the southern part of central Poland. Then it moved south again into Hungary and Romania.”
“Where does Czechoslovakia, where my own parents hail from, come into play?”
“Slovakia is part of Greater Hungary, because up until 1918 it was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, so when I say ‘Hungary’ I am including Slovakia. By contrast, the area that is now the Czech Republic isn’t significant to us because there were very few chasidim there if at all. In fact, only the eastern part of Slovakia, which later became TransCarpathian Ruthenia and was incorporated into Hungary, Romania and now Ukraine, is relevant to this topic, but it was never a center of chasidic life. As for the Hungarian territories, it was mostly Maramures and Transylvania that were heavily chasidic.”
“According to your calculations, would you say that the majority of the Jews at that time were religious, and a majority of the religious Jews were chasidim?”
“Up until the interwar period in the 1920s and ’30s, the majority of the population was religious, although not all were chasidim; it depended on the area. In Lithuania the majority were Litvish—either misnagdim or ambivalent towards chasidim—while only a minority were chasidim. But in Galicia, especially Eastern and Central Galicia, the majority were chasidim. Many communities were dominated by chasidim. Poland was also divided: Eastern Poland was mostly chasidic, but in Western Poland the numbers were much smaller.
“In general, the vast majority of Eastern European Jews in the 19th century were Orthodox, but this changed radically in the interwar period. In the Soviet Union, the number of religious people dropped dramatically because of the Communists’ anti-religious stance, and the chasidim were heavily persecuted and their leaders sent to Siberia. For example, the Machnovka Rebbe was only allowed to leave his exile in the 1960s. In Poland there wasn’t any religious persecution between the wars, but because of the trend towards modernization and the influence of secularism and politics, the number of people who were still religious dropped to one-third of the Jewish population. Of those who were religious, I’d say that the majority were chasidim. This loss was acutely felt by the chasidic community.
“If you look at the activities of the Piaseczno, Aleksander Rebbe and Gerrer Rebbes, much of their activity was inspired by the crisis of many members of the younger generation leaving the community and becoming communists or Zionists. They understood that they had to reinvent the structure of the traditional chasidic community, particularly during the First World War and immediately afterwards.”
“They say that history is written by the victors. There were many large chasidic courts before the Holocaust but they are no longer remembered, and other chasidic groups are far more dominant now. This makes people believe that they were dominant before the war as well, but it’s not necessarily true.”
“My atlas corrects this misconception. As I told you, I found 2,854 shtieblach in the early part of the last century. By comparing the number of shtieblach of different courts, I was able to establish their relative power, and the numbers are very precise. In Central Poland, 22% of shtieblach were Ger; 13% were Aleksander; 6% were Kotzk and its offspring, followed by Amshinov, Otvotzk (Vorka), and other smaller groups. Perhaps the biggest one that’s completely unknown today is Olik, which may have been the third largest in Volhynia during the interwar period.
“Which was the biggest in Ukraine?”
“Between the wars, the biggest court in Ukraine was Trisk, with 16%. The second largest was Sadigura, which was really in Bukovina, outside Ukraine, with 8%. The third was Olik, followed by Karlin-Stolin, Makarov, Tolne, Chernobyl, Stepan, Lubavitch, Skver, Brzezan, Hornosteipel and others.”
“Where was Lubavitch the most dominant?”
“Lubavitch was the dominant group in Lithuania and Belarus, where they had 32% of all the shtieblach. Every third shtiebel was Lubavitch, and there were other shtieblach belonging to other Chabad courts. Four percent belonged to Kapust; 3% to Liadi, and 3% to Strashelye. If you count all of them together, almost half of the shtieblach were Chabad. The next largest one in Belarus and Lithuania was Karlin-Stolin with 10%, followed by Slonim, Kobrin, Koidanov and several others.”
“Do you see a common denominator between all of these groups despite their differences?”
“Yes, and one of them is their common origin. The understanding that they all come from the Baal Shem Tov informs every single chasidic community. It also affects the relationships between groups, because it is much easier to move from one chasidic group to another than it is to move from chasidism to non-chasidism or vice versa. There are also elements that are shared by every group. The role of the tzaddik is one such element. Even to the groups like the ‘toite chasidim,’ as the Breslovers were once called since they don’t have a live Rebbe, there is still an understanding of the Rebbe as an essential spiritual experience for every chasid.
“Perhaps this is something that distinguishes me from many other scholars of chasidism. Whereas most of them concentrate on the theology and books, my approach is more in line with the statement of Rav Zusha of Anipoli. When he was in the court of Rav Dovber of Mezritch, he said that he learned more Torah from the way his Rebbe tied his shoelaces than he would ever learn from his lectures. To me, the interaction with the Rebbe is what defines the life of the community. My research brings this aspect to light, whereas other scholars tend to overlook it.”
Economic Life and Political Power
“How do you make a distinction in your research between religious Jews and chasidic Jews in terms of their economic, social and cultural lives? They were probably almost the same.”
“That’s true as far as economics is concerned,” he admits. “It’s very difficult to differentiate between chasidim and non-chasidim, and finding sources was extremely difficult. But I managed to locate the complete lists of several communities in Poland and Belarus, and I also came into possession of complete lists of taxpayers and their professions. By comparing the two lists, I could see how chasidim fit into the picture of the general Jewish economic activity.
“There’s a popular stereotype both in the secular world and among chasidic writers that the early chasidim were poor, even in the 19th century. One of the things I wanted to know was whether chasidim on average were richer or poorer than the average nonchasid. I also wanted to know if there was any specific profile for chasidic economic activity. Where did the money they used to sustain their families come from?
“Thanks to the comparison between the lists of chasidim and the lists of other Jews in central Poland and Belarus, I came to the conclusion— which was quite surprising to me—that chasidic communities were on average wealthier than nonchasidic ones. Even more interesting, the chasidim preferred to engage in trade and weren’t so involved in artisanship and crafts. Also, there were very few chasidim who were unskilled workers, although there was a lot overrepresentation when it came to the communal professions such as rabbi, gabbai, shames, mohel and shochet. So when you compare chasidim to other religious groups with similar profiles, you understand why their communal structure was as I described.”
“In what sense?”
“In the sense of emunah and bitachon supporting the economic activity. In the 19th century, the average boy starting an enterprise would get money from his family or in-laws and establish a business. Some of them would succeed, while others would go bankrupt. Many people needed to go bankrupt several times before starting to make money. In the traditional non-chasidic world, a person might start a business once or twice with his family’s support, but if he didn’t succeed he simply went bankrupt.
“Then there was another tier of support in the chasidic world: If a person failed using the money from his family, he could still count on assistance from his community. There is much documentation of chasidic solidarity being very important for internal economic support. If there was a wealthy person in a small chasidic town and he knew that another person had failed at his enterprise, he was willing to help him. This meant that people were given another chance.
“Also, chasidim preferred to be in trade rather than crafts, which usually generates a higher income. Being a chasid actually supported engaging in trade, because a non-chasid’s economic relations extended to his immediate business partners and family, but for a chasid this network was wider since he had to visit the court of the tzaddik several times a year, where he was able to build very strong relationships with people from other towns. This meant that he had access to business partners in a very large geographical region. It was therefore much easier for him to have a successful enterprise because he had a much larger pool of potential partners.
“Another important factor is the role of the tzaddik as arbitrator, not only in spiritual or familial matters but also economically. This is one more level that wasn’t available to a non-chasidic community, and it was enough to put chasidim in a relatively better financial situation.”
“Tell me about the political power chasidim wielded in their various countries of residence in Eastern Europe, which is the subject of the book you released in 2013.”
“It’s very interesting to see that some of the tzaddikim—most prominently Rav Yitzchak of Vurka and later the Chidushei HaRim—functioned as shtadlanim, representatives of the Jewish community to the non-Jewish authorities. It is also very instructive to see that behind their activity there were what I would call legal advisers, people who were very knowledgeable and skillful in navigating the law of the country. These were generally big entrepreneurs who had major financial influence and dealt with the authorities on a day-to-day basis. Those people weren’t visible, however; they lent their expertise to the tzaddik, who was the face of the political power. But it was really a wider enterprise undertaken by the entire community and not just the tzaddikim themselves.”
“Who do you think was the most politically astute and active among the Rebbes?
“In the 19th century, it is clear to me that the biggest innovation in the understanding of politics among tzaddikim came from Rav Yitzchak of Vurka. Around the same time the Tzemach Tzedek, Rav Menachem Mendel Schneersohn, was also very influential in political matters in Russia. You can see the structure of support from very wealthy Jews in St. Petersburg and Moscow, who brought their expertise into the service of the chasidic community. Those two should be listed as the most skillful political leaders of that period. In a sense they established the path for other segments of the Orthodox Jewish community. In the next century you have the founders of Agudat Yisrael in Poland, but that was a very different concept because by then it was mostly electoral politics predicated on parties.”
“Was the political power held only by the Rebbes or the chasidim as well?”
“I would say that any political activity required a very developed cooperation of many levels of political involvement. The tzaddik would never act alone, and it is obvious that without support he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what he did. At the same time, without him others would be unable to have power. They were entirely interdependent, so it’s impossible to say which was the more important. The beauty is that they managed to invent new ways of being politically active, because traditional Jewish politics had been based on shtadlanim.
“The way it worked up until then was that the Jewish community would hire a political activist who would go to the Polish court or nobleman and try to obtain certain political privileges. This changed in the late-18th century because there was no longer a Polish court, so the entire legal system changed. Under the new system, the Jewish community was deprived of political power, not because of antiSemitism—which of course existed—but because the authorities claimed that the Jews weren’t a community but only individual citizens. Every citizen could represent his own interests, but no one could speak in the name of a group. Jews were permitted to organize for religious purposes, but they were forbidden to organize politically. This meant having to reinvent how to represent themselves to the government, but somehow the tzaddikim managed to present themselves as the representatives of the entire Jewish population.”
“What’s fascinating is that all of this developed in antiSemitic environments. Would you agree with that statement?”
“The political elite were certainly more or less antiSemitic, but they were trying to present themselves as neutral. Those who were skillful used this supposed ambivalence to their advantage. Rav Yitzchak of Vurka, for example, was as successful as he was because he was able to neutralize the anti-Semitic bias of many politicians. He forced them to act against their will by citing legal precedents in support of his arguments that they couldn’t reject. One such case involved the right of rabbanim to control the kashrut of meat in Poland. Absurdly, the right to sell kosher meat and levy the special tax on it had been given over to a Christian enterprise, which was obviously a major problem. Rav Yitzchak of Vurka managed to present this as destructive to the state budget and contrary to its revenue laws. By using this argument, he managed to help the Jewish community regain control. The political bias and anti-Semitism of many of the politicians was rendered ineffective, because they had to follow the legal procedures established by the law of the land. One of the most important factors in the politics of the 19th century was that even the most oppressive countries were trying to establish themselves as places that operated under the rule of law.”
“Tell me about the Tzemach Tzedek’s successes. What was his style of political activity?”
“He was active in Russia in a different context. When he passed away in 1866 there was a visible break in the political representation in Russia, mainly because his succession was unclear; his sons established other courts in other towns, and his youngest son, Rav Shmuel, remained in Lubavitch. This was only slowly regained by his grandson, Rav Shalom Dovber, but his was a time of lesser political success. Concurrently, the Chidushei HaRim established himself as an extremely successful political leader in central Poland. He was succeeded by the Sfas Emes, who was also very successful, as was his son, the Imrei Emes, who was very involved in the creation of Agudat Yisrael. By then the political climate in central Poland was under Russian control, but because it was ethnically different, it maintained a separate legal system that encouraged political activity far more than Russia. So I would say that after 1866 and the passing of the Tzemach Tzedek, there was no longer a real parallel of politics in Russia and Poland.”
“By ‘political activism’ you mean efforts to benefit Jewish life in the places they lived.”
“I am referring to those actions that were undertaken by chasidic leaders with the support of their constituencies to guarantee certain privileges or rights for the Jewish community at large, not just the chasidic community. Aside from the right to have control over the supply of kosher meat, this would include the ability of Jewish prisoners to have kosher food or the right to establish eiruvin in Jewish districts. This was a very important change from the earlier chasidic involvement in politics like that of Rav Meir of Apta, who was mostly active in defending the rights of chasidim to establish their own shtieblach, or to prevent the persecution of the chasidic community.”
“Every Jewish leader really fought for the rights of the Jewish community, so how were the chasidic leaders different in that regard?”
“True, many of their efforts weren’t very different from those of non-chasidic rabbanim, but the whole structure of chasidism empowered its leaders far more than other rabbanim. Let’s say that there was a rabbi of a town—even a very important posek in a big city. Who was behind him? He had only his personal charisma and his community. The Gerrer Rebbe, however, had 50,000 followers all over Poland. This gave him the ability to engineer a campaign to support his political actions in a very broad way. This structure of support that wasn’t confined to specific territories and could cover large areas of Eastern Europe gave additional power to chasidic representation.”
“Did you get the feeling that the growth of a particular court was dependent on the political skills of its leader?”
“That’s something that’s very hard to establish, because no direct testimonies would say such a thing, that this tzaddik was more powerful because he was politically skilled. But if you observe the correlation between political involvement and the number of followers, it’s very significant that those tzaddikim who became more politically involved eventually gained wider followings and vice versa; by having wider followings they were able to be more effective politicians. So these two phenomena were interdependent both ways.
“This is also very true of the interwar period. The tzaddikim who were engaged in the reinvention of chasidism after the First World War, establishing new school systems and other activities of that kind, eventually turned out to be more effective than others. For example, before WWI the Tchortkover and Belzer Rebbes were equally as powerful. But after the war the Tchortkover Rebbe’s power shrank dramatically, and the same holds true of many other Rebbes in central Poland. Another example would be the Gerrer Rebbe, whose political involvement and institution of new infrastructures in the yeshivos and Bais Yankevs [sic] gave him a very strong boost. He had 100,000 followers in the interwar period, which was unparalleled. So a connection exists between politics and the internal relative power of certain Rebbes.”
Concerns and Lessons
The country of Poland is currently going through difficult political times. Last week, the government effectively forced more than two dozen justices out of their jobs. The purged judges refused to recognize their dismissal, while the government officials insisted that they would no longer be allowed to hear cases. Surrounded by cheering supporters, the top Supreme Court justice took a defiant stand on the courthouse steps, and vowed to keep fighting to protect the Polish constitution and the independence of that nation’s courts. The confrontation was followed by dueling news conferences, fiery speeches and more street protests. I ask Marcin if he thinks Poland is moving towards a more dictatorial type of government.
“Poland has been losing its democratic institutions with increasing rapidity over the last three years since the ruling party took power,” he admits. “I can already see a lot of manifestations of an authoritarian state. While the Supreme Court is currently in the news it’s really only the tip of the iceberg, because we see many such things on a daily basis, such as the use of police against the political enemies of the present government, which is typically authoritarian. Then there’s the use of the media as a propaganda tool for the current government. Using public money in support of one political option totally demolishes the constitutional structure. I am very afraid that if the ruling party wins again next year, that will be the last free election in Poland.”
“Do you think that the Jews who live in Poland and the Jewish community at large should be concerned about this?” I want to know. “The ruling party is right-wing, and in Europe right-wing parties are very closely associated with anti-Semitic ideologies, but they are very wary of being labeled antiSemitic. For this reason, the ruling party won’t openly attack the Jewish community in the foreseeable future. But just by looking at the Holocaust law that was passed in January you can see that even without the direct intention of the regime there’s been a rise of anti-Semitic sentiment, which is fueled by the current political climate. This might be a concern in the long run, and is something that has been expressed by many representatives of the Jewish community over the last year.”
“Are you concerned as an academic about the freedom to do your research?”
“Yes. My understanding of the Holocaust law, which was somewhat rescinded, was that the objective wasn’t to persecute people who discussed the involvement of Poles in the killing of Jews during the Holocaust; it was more about creating a general feeling of fear and auto-censorship of what can be said in public these days.”
My final question to the professor is whether he thinks that what his research reveals about chasidic life contains lessons for the world at large.
“That’s a difficult question for me because I’m an academic; my work isn’t so much about finding moral lessons. But it is very clear to me that chasidism holds a huge cultural and spiritual attraction to the world. If you look at its impact on cultural imagery, the image of the traditional Jewish world to many non-Jews is identical to chasidism. This is a huge success, which is due to the spiritual attractiveness of chasidism. But I’m much more interested in analyzing it as a religious phenomenon that shows the interrelationship between religion and other aspects of daily life. I’m not saying that chasidism isn’t a religious movement; of course it is. But being a chasid is something so comprehensive that it affects cultural expressions, economic life and many other areas of activity.
“My research articulates the totality of the experience and helps people understand chasidism as a vibrant movement that isn’t black and white, which is the way it is often portrayed. It has very rich and complicated structures, which have a very big influence not only on the Jewish community but on the larger, non-Jewish societies in which chasidim live. It is also very deeply embedded in geographical location. My Historical Atlas of Hasidism shows how much the spirituality of chasidism is conditioned by the geographical context in which it developed, which is yet another aspect.
“What I would love to achieve with my publications,” he finally allows, “is to promote the understanding that because chasidism is so unique, it allows us to understand much of the world around us, and not just chasidism itself.”



New book announcement

New book announcement
By Eliezer Brodt
יצחק לנדיס, ברכת העבודה בתפילת העמידה, עיונים בנוסחיה ובתולדותיה, 170 עמודים
This recent work written by Yitz Landes, of the Talmud Blog looks rather impressive and I am sure will be enjoyed by many readers of the blog. What follows is the abstract of the book and the Table of Contents. If you are interested in purchasing the book contact me at eliezerbrodt@gmail.com

The present work traces the history of the ante-penultimate blessing of the Amidah, “Birkat ha-Avodah”, from Second Temple times through the Middle Ages. The first chapter deals with the rabbinic sources that describe its recitation in the Temple and compares versions of the blessing found in siddurim with prayers found in literature from the period of the Second Temple. The second chapter is devoted to the early evidence of the blessing’s formulation located in the 4th century church order, The Apostolic Constitutions. In the third chapter, all of the various versions of the blessing located in siddurim and in medieval halakhic literature are analyzed.  In the fourth chapter, he utilizes a variety of sources, including a large corpus of classical Piyyut, to reconstruct a lost version of the blessing’s doxology. The fifth chapter unpacks the language of cultic worship utilized in the various versions of the blessing and compares it with the understandings of the blessing’s meaning found in classical Piyyut and in medieval sources. In the summary, he provides a new model for understanding the development of the version of the blessing that was eventually adopted and address the ramifications of this study for our understandings of the development of Jewish liturgy and of the substitution of sacrifice in Jewish thought.

 

 

 




God’s Silent Voice: Divine Presence in a Yiddish Poem by Abraham Joshua Heschel

God’s Silent Voice: Divine Presence in a Yiddish Poem by Abraham Joshua Heschel

Ariel Evan Mayse joined the faculty of Stanford University in 2017 as an assistant professor in the Department of Religious Studies, after previously serving as the Director of Jewish Studies and Visiting Assistant Professor of Modern Jewish Thought at Hebrew College in Newton, Massachusetts, and a research fellow at the Frankel Institute for Advanced Judaic Studies of the University of Michigan. He holds a Ph.D. in Jewish Studies from Harvard University and rabbinic ordination from Beit Midrash Har’el in Israel. Ariel’s current research examines the role of​ language in ​Hasidism, manuscript theory and the formation of early Hasidic literature, the renaissance of Jewish mysticism in the nineteenth and twentieth century and the relationship between spirituality and law in Jewish legal writings.

Ariel Evan Mayse
N.B.
The present English introduction represents a precis of the Yiddish essay that
appears directly thereafter. Hoping to summon up something of Heschel’s poetic
sensibility through sustained engagement with his work in its original language,
the reader is invited to turn there after examining these remarks. Comments,
criticism, and further discussion most welcome.

The youthful poems of Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907–1972) bespeak the spiritual peregrinations of their author’s life. [1] Born in Eastern Europe and raised in an environment infused with mystical spirituality, the themes that dominate Heschel’s poetic works reflect his traditional Hasidic upbringing. His poems articulate a keen personal awareness of God’s presence, one that is infused with biblical language and theology as well as the ethos of Hasidism, [2] but they are far more than liturgical compositions or pietistic odes. Like his Neo-Hasidic predecessor Hillel Zeitlin, Heschel’s poems employ mystical themes in a modern key, fusing the language tradition with modern aesthetics in order to expand the vocabulary—and boundaries—of religious realm. [3] Heschel left the cloistered world of Hasidic Warsaw to study in the secular academies of Vilna and Berlin, but his bold poetry straddles modernity and tradition by translating his spiritual experiences, including those of his youth, into a modern poetic style.

Heschel’s first and only volume of poetry, The Ineffable Name: Man (Der Shem haMeforash: Mentsh), drew together a range of pieces that had appeared in literary journals and newspapers. [4] The collection was first published in Warsaw in 1933, at the time Heschel was completing his dissertation in Berlin about the phenomenology of biblical prophecy. This subject permeates much of his poetry, which evinces a sonorous prophetic quality that echoes biblical language and concerns. Many of the poems in The Ineffable Name evoke God’s immanence in the world, a bedrock aspect of Hasidic piety and devotion. Heschel does so, however, by suggesting that God’s sublime presence is both ineffable and yet inescapable. This holds true, says Heschel, even as one attempts to move away from God and across the modern landscape.

This paradox of divine immanence and invisibility undergirds his poem “God Follows Me Everywhere” (Got Geyt Mir Nokh Umetum, 1929), a work that is among the theological qualities of Heschel’s poetry. [5] Throughout its verses, the author struggles with the difficulty of the quest to recognize Divine immanence in the modern world. [6] For the contemporary seeker, it seems, God is paradoxically hidden and revealed. [7] The Divine pursues the narrator throughout his travels, but God’s mysterious presence is simultaneously unavoidable and unrecognizable, defying discernment as well as expression:

God follows me everywhere –
spins a net of glances around me,
shines upon my sightless back
like a sun.
God follows me like a forest
everywhere.
My lips, always amazed, are truly
numb, dumb,
Like a child who blunders upon an
ancient holy place.
God follows me like a shiver
everywhere.
My desire is for rest; the demand
within me is up: Rise up,
See how prophetic visions are
scattered in the streets.
I go with my reveries as with a
secret
in a long corridor through the
world –
and sometimes I glimpse high
above me the faceless face of God.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
God follows me in tramways, in
cafes.
Oh, it is only with the backs of
the pupils of one’s eyes that one can see
how secrets ripen, how visions
come to be.
Dedicated to my teacher David
Koigan, may his soul be in paradise.[8]

Heschel’s intensely personal verses convey the inner turmoil of an individual who is keenly aware that God’s presence, constant and universal though it may be, cannot be articulated or directly envisioned. Written in the first person, the poem seems to be an introspective, and likely autobiographical, exploration of the narrator’s inability to escape God’s infinitude. The motion of this journey to step beyond the Divine, and God’s subsequent chase, propels the poem forward from beginning to end. But there is another layer of unresolved tension undergirding the entire poem: to what extent may God’s immanence be felt or experienced? The Divine may permeate all layers of being, but is the narrator aware of that presence? And, even when attained, is such attunement a fleeting epiphany that comes and goes, or does the illumination inhere within the narrator as he walks along the path?

The poem commences with the eponymous line, deserving of much careful attention. The phrase “God follows me everywhere” functions as a refrain that is repeated four times throughout the five stanzas, with slight variations in setting and diction each time. This gives the entire poem a cohesive structure, rhythmically underscoring that, regardless of where the narrator goes, he will remain unable to escape the Divine presence. Furthermore, this constant reiteration of a single axiomatic phrase gives the work a prayer-like and liturgical quality, alerting the reader to the tone of spiritual journeying that infuses his poem.[9]

Heschel subtly likens God to a spider or a fisherman, surrounding the narrator with a visionary web of constant examination. This dazzling divine gaze is overpowering (blenden), and indeed the third line might more literally be translated, “blinding my unseeing back like a sun.”[10] It is the radiant overabundance of God’s light that overwhelms the speaker, not the absence thereof, implying that the revelation is occluded by the very intensity of its meter. Similar descriptions abound in Jewish mystical literature, including the Hasidic classics that sustained Heschel in his childhood.[11] Just as one who stares directly into the sun is blinded by the strength of the illumination, argues Heschel, so does God’s unyielding attention render the narrator sightless.

Yet Heschel’s usage of this image is more nuanced, since God’s celestial gaze falls upon the back of the narrator, a part of human anatomy already incapable of sight. This suggests that the speaker has already turned his back on God and is indeed traveling farther and farther away. The reader has not been told if this movement represents an intentional quest or an unintentional drift, but, in any event, God’s presence is inescapable and unavoidable. The narrator is pursued even as he struggles to withdraw from the divine glance.

Heschel’s verses are filled with poetic imagery, using figurative language and bold similes that describe God by likening the Divine to physical phenomenon. This literary technique produces an earthy, embodied vision of the Divine. But it also signals God’s constant pursuit of the individual and interrogates the boundaries of divine omnipresence.[12] In comparing God to a forest, for example, Heschel underscores that the Divine follows the speaker in every place that he might wander—even a natural place far beyond the traditional religious locales of the synagogue and study hall. The analogy operates on a deeper level, however, for Heschel has chosen his words carefully. Rather than stating that the Divine pursues the speaker “into the woods,” Heschel compares God to the forest itself, thereby invoking both the wild uncertainty and the subtle constancy of the woods as metaphors for the extent to which God continually surrounds the narrator.

God’s presence nearly unbearable in its consistency and intensity, and, in part for this reason, the glance of the Divine remains unspeakable. Heschel compares the speaker to a child whose imperfect command of language holds him back from adequately expressing the raw holiness with which he is confronted. A second stratum of the paradoxical relationship with the Divine is thus introduced to the poem: God’s holiness is found equally, in every place, but it is impossible for narrator to express verbally. Like a child rendered speechless by the wonder of discovery, Heschel’s narrator’s lips are robbed of language by the encountering God’s “ancient holy place.” [13]

The ambiguity leaves the reader of Heschel’s words with an unresolved question: does this imply that the narrator cannot find the words with which to address God, or perhaps he cannot begin to articulate the magnitude of experiencing the presence of the Divine to a third party. Does the speaker lapse into silence before God, or is he stricken with the inability to articulate or convey the experience to another? This precise nature of this inscrutability, underscored by the general lack of dialogue within the work and the predominance of sensory images, remains unclear.

As unavoidable and unconscious as a shudder, God’s immanence escorts the narrator wherever he goes, and in the third stanza we are granted a glimpse into a deep internal conflict resulting from this. The speaker explains that while he wishes only to rest, possibly expressing a desire to break away from the unyielding struggle with God, the imperative within stirs him to action and will not allow him to remain passive or static. In a reflexive demand echoing the language of the Bible, he is compelled to “rise up” and see that the ostensibly mundane streets are themselves loci of prophetic experience. In this paragraph, the inner tension resulting of God’s omnipresence has become more apparent, for such continued awareness of the inescapable Divine with no chance of respite places a strain upon the narrator.

Nevertheless, in the following lines the speaker remarks that he proceeds contemplatively along through the world as through a corridor consumed in his “reveries” (l. 10, rayonos, which might also be rendered “thoughts” or “imaginings”). Heschel alludes to the language of the Mishnah, in which the present reality is likened to a simple corridor before the splendor of the World to Come,[14] spinning an image of the narrator as moving through a “hallway” that is a transformative journey. The narrator steps forward along this path possessing of a secret, alluding to his quasi-mystical consciousness of God’s omnipresence. However, that he only intermittently finds the paradoxical “faceless face of God” above him begs the question of precisely how truly discernable is the immanent presence following him. That is, does the narrator permanently have his eyes inclined towards heaven and God only appears to sporadically (and amorphously), or is it rather that he is so preoccupied with his internal struggle that he only infrequently remembers to look above him? Like the paradox of wondrous ineffability presented immediately above, Heschel allows this ambiguity to remain unresolved.

The final stanza suggests that God is equally present in the modern landscape of technology and urban life as the pastoral settings in which the poem begins. However, despite constantly reinforcing God’s universality in all aspects of the physical world, Heschel’s deployment of the image of “the backs of pupils” (l. 14) suggests that introspection holds the key to attuning oneself to the generative process of the mystical experience. Just as the imperative to “rise up” emerges is a reflexive command from within the narrator, the quest to apprehend God’s presence in the world is mirrored by an interior journey to find hidden knowledge buried deep inside the speaker himself.

Stepping back for a moment and examining the poem as whole, it is difficult to establish precisely who should be considered the subject or protagonist of the work. On one hand, the active narrator displays agency by moving from one location to another. God responds by following or pursuing him throughout the journey, but it is the speaker who is the clearly at center of the action. The usage of the verb nokhgeyen similarly implies that God’s role is one of response and imitation rather than proactive beckoning. But on the other hand, the work itself seems to have been composed as a poetic response the theological quandary of being unable to break away from an omnipresent Divine being, and God’s ultimate inescapability may be seen as an expression of His omnipotence. The narrator is dynamic and in-motion only within certain boundaries; eternally linked to God, he can break the fetters that unite him to the Divine.
Should we associate the narrator of the poem with the author, and was it Heschel’s intention to use these verses to broadcast and explore his own inner struggle? He claims very little aesthetic distance from his poetry, but is it fair for the reader to assume that the speaker must be equated with Heschel himself? Reading this as an introspective composition, it is quite difficult to understand the narrator as anyone but the young Heschel, whose journey from Hasidic Warsaw to his temporary home in Berlin seems the archetype for quest of the speaker.[15]Such a reading of “God Follows Me Everywhere” suggests that, in this poem, Heschel offers the reader some private and lyrical reflection on awareness of God’s spiritual presence even in one of the premier secular and intellectual capitals of Europe.[16] Similarly, throughout the five stanzas the setting of the poem transitions from the wild forest to the modern urban life of a metropolis filled with tramways and cafes, illustrating in physical terms the internal odyssey of the narrator.[17]
This text, which seems to be an autobiographical description of Heschel’s journey out of Warsaw, does not convey any of the bitterness or outright anger found in the works of other Yiddish poets who struggled with the boundaries of tradition. For Heschel, God remains unavoidable, an omnipresent truth witnessed by the wonder of creation even as one moves beyond the pale to remote realms. Caught up in the wondrous mystery of his journey through the modern landscape, the protagonist is cut loose from the moors of his past but not necessarily fleeing from the Divine as an act of spite or rage. The narrator is pursued by a deity that cannot be left behind, but, says Heschel,
God’s glance and voice convey neither the thunderous omnipotence of the Psalmist’s Deity nor the bitter inescapability of religion decried by some secular Yiddish authors.  The God of Heschel’s poem mirrors the strides of the human being, doing so with a benevolent and mystical grace so sublime and stunning that the speaker’s lips are quelled into silence.
Stylistically, it is interesting to note the abundance of Germanic words and the relative absence of Hebrew (loshn-koydesh) terms in this poem. God is never referred to be one of his traditional Hebrew epithets, and opportunities to use more religiously infused words are passed over: Heschel opts for hayliktum and not kedushah for “holiness”; zeungen instead of nevi’us for “prophetic visions”; and vizies and not khezyoynes for “visions.”[18] In doing so, the author sets the tone of the work to a more universal register, for there is nothing uniquely Jewish about the content or even the very language of the poem that links it to the religious tradition upon which it is certainly drawing. Perhaps we may also see here the expression of a tension between modern notions of poetic aesthetics and traditional spiritual motifs.[19] In stripping the Yiddish language of any words that connote a particular Jewish experience, Heschel has effectively opened it up to expressing more universal existential questions of meaning.
The rhyme scheme of the first three stanzas follows a simple AAA pattern, and since the final words in every line end with the same sound (“um”), the rhyme extends melodically from one paragraph to the next. However, this form collapses in the fourth paragraph, which, although it contains the requisite three-line structure, is completely unrhymed. This absence adds to the impression that this paragraph is qualitatively different than the others, first indicated by the fact that it does not begin with a variant of the familiar refrain “God follows me everywhere.” To further reinforce the distinction, Heschel’s poem is published with a long row of hyphens that create a visual rift between the fourth and fifth stanzas, a possible semiotic indication of the paradoxical journey of the narrator reaching its peak. In the final paragraph, however, the rhyme scheme is restored once again (to the exact same syllable as the first three stanzas), signifying that the completion of the process of the speaker’s accepting that God’s presence will follow him wherever he roams.
In addition to the impossibility of moving away from an almost unperceivable but inescapable Divine presence, there is yet another fundamental paradox at the heart of Heschel’s poem. The work is implicitly universal in tone, and the experience being described is not in any way explicitly or exclusively Jewish. Heschel’s poem brings this vision to life through focusing on the interior spiritual journey of one person; the reader is granted access to the narrator’s own experience by peering in from the outside.  However, as was true of his English theological works as well, Heschel’s modern consciousness has attuned him to facets of the inner and religious life that seem completely unconfined by his uniquely Jewish upbringing, allowing him to compose a poem that focuses on a single person but nonetheless has far broader applications. His anonymous narrator has neither overt religious affiliation nor clear cultural identity, experiencing God in universal terms that allow a reader of any background to empathize in Heschel’s words.
As mentioned above, the relative absence of Yiddish words of Hebrew origin with strong religious connotations from Heschel’s deeply evocative and spiritual work is striking. Despite having been composed in Yiddish, Heschel’s poem has few direct references to the Jewish religious or cultural tradition; it seems almost like a modern romantic or existentialist poem translated into Yiddish. And yet, the quest and divine shadow at the heart of Heschel’s poem are unmistakably redolent of the spiritual journey described in Psalm 139:
Lord,
You searched me and You know,
It is You Who know when I sit and I rise,
            You fathom my thoughts from afar.
My path and my lair You winnow,
            And with all my ways are familiar.
For there is no word on my tongue,
            But that You, O Lord, wholly know it.[20]
Though he may travel to the ends of the earth, the Psalmist cannot flee God’s presence. The biblical narrator’s thoughts and words are known to God before they are spoken, and the wondrous divine majesty, inescapable and inscrutable, illuminating the heavens and the earth alike. The text may be interpreted as suggested that the speaker is plagued or harried by an unavoidable, but it may also be read as a hopeful expression that any place may become a site of refuge, for God’s immanence presents rests with equal splendor and power throughout world.
“God Follows Me Everywhere” may be read as a contemporary retelling of the Psalmist’s words, updated into a modern style and illustrated with the urban scenery of a present-day metropolis. Without quoting directly from Psalm 139, Heschel’s poem gestures toward a similar experience of the inescapabilty of the Divine. Both Heschel’s poem and the Psalmist’s words invoke temporal descriptions that function as spiritual metaphors, suggesting the presence of a transformative inner journey mirroring that of a physical quest.
There are differences, of course. In the biblical text, it is the narrator that is constantly moving, always remaining within the ken of the infinite—yet stationary—Divine presence. Heschel’s poem, however, recasts the narrator and God are dynamic characters; they mirror each other, moving from location to location. God is in pursuit of the speaker, and the relationship between the two seems to be the polar opposite of that of the Psalm: the God of our Yiddish poem is inescapable not because of his powerful omnipresence, but rather because the Divine is eternally tracing the movements of the narrator. To echo Heschel’s later formulation, God cares about the affairs of mankind and responds to human action.
The slim 1933 anthology in which “God Follows Me Everywhere” remained Heschel’s only completed poetic work. Heschel’s postwar writings echo the lyrical, liturgical style of his earlier writing, but he shifted from poetry to theology and historical scholarship. Such may have been the result of the crushing tragedy of the Holocaust, a collective—and personal—trauma so heartrending and absolute that it defies poetic expression.[21] Heschel’s poem was written before the Nazis rose to power, and the destruction of Eastern European Jewry must have signaled the end of any vision of modernist aesthetics as a noble cultural achievement. But “God Follows Me Everywhere” carries within it the message that came to fuller articulation in Heschel’s more mature theological project and vision of social change: “God is in search of man. Faith in God is a response to God’s question.”[22]
דער אייבערשטערס שטומע קול׃
אַ נאָענטע לייענונג פֿון אבֿרהם יהושע העשלס ליד ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך אומעטום״
פֿון׃ אריאל אבֿן-מעשׂה [1]
            די יידישע דיכטונג פֿון דעם
פֿריִען צוואַנציקסטן יאָרהונדערט גיט אָן זייער אַ װיכטיקן פּערספּעקטיוו אויף די
אינטעלעקטועלע און גייסטיקע–אָדער בעסער געזאָגט רוחניותדיקע– אַספּעקטן פֿון
דער יידישער געשיכטע. די צײַט איז געװען אַ תּקופֿה פֿון גרויסע אנטוויקלונגען און
איבערקערעניש פֿאַר די מזרח-אייראָפּעיִשע יידן. נײַע השׂגות פֿון אידענטיטעט,
רעליגיִע, און עקאָנאָמיע האָבן זיך פֿאַרמעסטן קעגן טראַדיציע, און אַ סך יידן
האָבן פֿאַרלאָזן דעם לעבן פֿון יידישקייט און זײַנען אַרײַנגעטרעטן אין דער
מאָדערנישער װעלט. אינטעליגענטן האָבן זיך געצויגן צו דער מאָדערנישער
פֿילאָסאָפֿיע, װעלטלעכען הומאַניזם, און נײַע װיסנשאַפֿטלעכע געביטן װי
פּסיכאָלאָגיע. פֿאַר אַנדערע, סאָציאַליזם איז געװען אַ צוציִיִקע
פֿאַרענטפֿערונג פֿאַר דער גראָבער עקאָנאָמיקער אומגלײַכקייט, אָדער אין
מזרח-אײראָפּע אָדער אין ארץ-ישׂראל. נאָך אַנדערע ייִדן האָבן אימיגרירט קיין
אַמעריקע און האָבן אָנגעהויבן אַ נײַע לעבנס דאָרטן. אין דער צייט האָבן די
יידישע דיכטער פֿון אַמעריקע און אייראָפּע געראַנגלט מיט דער מסורה. זיי האָבן
ביידע געשעפּט פֿון דעם קװאַל פֿון דער רעליגיִעזער טראַדיציע, און האָבן זיי אויך
זיך געאַמפּערט קעגן אים. די יידישע דיכטער האָבן אויסגעפֿאָרשט דעם מאָדערנעם
עסטעטיק און דעם באַטײַט פֿון אוניװערסאַליזם, אָבער זיי האָבן דאָס געטאָן צווישן
די גרענעצן פֿון דעם מאַמע-לשון. די יידישע לידער פֿון די יאָרן זײַנען אַ טייל
פֿון אַ ברייטער ליטעראַטור, װאָס שטייט מיט איין מאָל לעבן און װײַט פֿון דער
טראַדיציע.[2]
            אין אָט-דעם אַרטיקל װעלן
מיר פֿאָקוסירן אויף דעם ליד ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך אומוטעם״ פֿון אבֿרהם יהושע
העשלען (1907-1972). העשלס לידער זײַנען אויסגעצייכנטע דוגמאות פֿון דער שפּאַנונג
צווישן מאָדערנהייט און מסורה.[3] העשל איז געבוירן געוואָרן אין װאַרשע אין אַ
חסידשער משפחה פֿון רביס און רבצינס. ער איז אויפֿגעהאָדעוועט געװאָרן מיט דער
מיסטישער רוחניות;[4] די טעמעס פֿון זײַנע לידער שפּיגלען אָפּ די סביבה פֿון זײַן
יונגערהייט. פֿונדעסטװעגן, זײַנען זײַנע לידער נישט קיין טראַדיציאָנעלע תּפֿילות
אָדער פּיוטים. העשל האָט געשריבן מיטן לשון און אימאַזשן פֿונעם יידישער מיסטיק
כּדי אויסצושפּרייטן די גרענעצן פֿון רעליגיע. נאָך דעם װאָס ער איז אַנטלויפֿן
פֿון װאַרשע אין די װעלטלעכע אַקאַדעמיעס פֿון װילנע און בערלין, האָט העשל
אָנגעהויבן שרײַבן דרייסטע און דינאַמישע לידער אין װעלכע ער האָט איבערגעזעצט די
רוחניות פֿון זײַנע יונגע יאָרן אויף אַ גאָר מאָדערנישער שפּראַך. דאָס ערשט און
איינציקער באַנד פֿון העשלס לידער, ״דער שם המפֿורש׃ מענטש,״ האָט צונויפֿגעפֿירט
זעקס און זעכציק פֿון טעקסטן װאָס זײַנען אַרויס פֿריער אין זשוּרנאַלן און
צײַטונגען.[5] דאָס בוּך איז אַרויס אין װאַרשע אין 1933,[6] בשעת השעל האָט
געשריבן זײַן דיסערטאַציע אין בערלין װעגן דער פֿענאָמענאָלאָגיע פֿון נבֿוּאה אין
דעם תּנ״ך. מיר װעלן זעען אַז די פֿאַרבינדונג צװישן מענטש און גאָט איז אויך אַ
טעמע װאָס מען געפֿינט זייער אָפֿט אין זײַנע לידער.
            דאָס ליד ״גאָט גייט מיר
נאָך אומעטום״ איז זיכער איינס פֿון די שענסטע און האַרציקסטע לידער פֿון דעם
באַנד. דער טעקסט איז אַרויסגעגאַנגן צום ערשטענס אין 1927 אין דעם זשוּרנאַל צוקונפֿט.[7]
אין דעם ליד האָט העשל געראַנגלט מיט אַ קאָמפּליצירטן אָבער באַקאַנטן
פּאַראַדאָקס׃ גאָט איז ביידע פֿאַראַן און באַהאַלטן. דער אייבערשטער לויפֿט נאָך
נאָך דעם רעדנער אומוטעם, אָבער ס׳איז אוממיגלעך אים צו זעען. ער (דער רעדנער) קען
אַפֿילו נישט באַשרײַבען װאָס עס מיינט איבערצולעבן דעם רבונו-של-עולם׳ס
אָנװעזנקייט. אין העשלס װערטער׃
גאָט גייט מיר נאָך אוּמעטוּם
— — —
שפּינט אַ נעץ פֿוּן בּליקן
מיר אַרוּם,
בּלענדט מיין בּלינדן רוקן
װי אַ זון.
גאָט גייט מיר נאָך װי אַ
װאַלד אוּמעטוּם.
אוּן שטענדיק שטוינען מיינע
ליפּן האַרציק-שטוּם,
װי אַ קינד, װאָס
בּלאָנדזשעט אין אַן אַלטן הייליקטוּם.
גאָט גייט אין מיר נאָך װי
אַ שוידער אוּמעטוּם.
עס גלוּסט זיך מיר רוּ, עס
מאָנט מיר׃ — קוּם!
קוּק װי זעוּנגען װאַלגערן
אויף גאַסן זיך אַרוּם.
איך גיי אין רעיונות מיינע
אוּם װי אַ סאָד
אין אַ לאַנגן קאָרידאָר
דוּרך די װעלט —
אוּן דערזע אַמאָל הויך
איבּער מיר דאָס פּנימלאָזע פּנים פֿון גאָט
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
גאָט גייט מיר נאָך אין
טראַמװייען, אין קאפעען…
אָ ס׳איז נאָר מיט רוּקנס
פֿון אַפּלען צוּ זעען,
װי סודות אַנטשטייען, װי
װיזיעס געשעען!
געװידמעט
מיין לערער דוד קויגן נ״ע[8]
אָט-די פּערזענלעכע שורות גיבן
איבער דעם אינעװייניקסטן קאַמף פֿון אַ בחור װאָס קען נישט אַנטלויפֿען פֿון דעם
רבונו-של-עולם. געשריבן געװאָרן אין דעם ערשטען פּערזאָן, איז דאָס ליד אַן
אינטראָספּעקטיווע (און אַפֿילו אויטאָביאָגראַפֿישע) באַשרײַבונג פֿון דעם
רעדנערס רײַזע דורך אַ װעלט אין װעלכנע גאָט געפֿינט זיך שטענדיק. אָבער ס׳איז דאָ
אַ פּאַראַדאָקס׃ גאָטס אוניװערסאלע אָנװעזענקייט איז זייער סובטיל. זי איז אַ סוד
און אַ מיסטעריע װאָס מ׳קען נישט אויסדריקן. דער לייענער מוז פֿרעגן, צי איז דער
רעדנער תּמיד בּאַמערקן אַז גאָט איז דאָ? אָדער אפֿשר איז דאָס װיסיקייט אַן
אויפֿבליץ װאָס קומט אָן און װידער לויפֿט אַװעק?
            לאָמיר לייענען דעם ליד שורה
נאָך שורה׃ דאָס ליד הייבט זיך אָן מיט די װערטער ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך,״ די
זעלביקע װערטער װאָס עפֿענען פֿיר פֿון די פֿינף סטראָפֿעס. די װידערהאָלונג פֿון
דער שורה גיט דאָס ליד אַ מין האַפֿטיקייט, װײַל עס שטרײַכט אַונטער, אַז דער
רעדנער קען אַבסאָלוט נישט אַנטלויפֿן פֿון גאָט. צום סוף פֿון דער ערשטער שורה
קומט אַ קליינע ליניע, װאָס קען זײַן אַ סימן אַז גאָטס יאָג איז באמת
אומבאַגרענעצט. די װערטער ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך״ שטייען װי אַ צוזונג, װאָס גיט דעם
טעקסט אַ תּפֿילותדיק אייגנקייט.
            אין דער ערשטער סטראָפֿע,
פֿאַרגלײַכט דער רעדנער דעם אייבערשטערן מיט אַ שפּין, װאָס כאַפּט אים אַרום מיט
אַ געװעב פֿון קוקן; גאָט בקרײַזט דער רעדנער און ער קען נישט פֿליִען. גאָטס
בלענדיקער בליק שטאַרקט איבער דעם רעדנער װי דאָס אומפֿאַרמײַדלעך ליכט פֿון דער
זון. ס׳איז דער איבערפֿלייץ פֿון גאָטס ליכט, נישט די פֿאַרפֿעלונג דערפֿון, װאָס
לייגט אַוועק דעם רעדנער. אָבער העשלס מעטאַפֿאָר איז דאָך טיפֿער, װײַל גאָטס
ליכטיקן בליק שײַנט אויף דעם דערציילערס רוקן. דאָס הייסט, אַז דער רעדנער האָט
זיך שוין אָפּגעקערט פֿון גאָט און גייט װײַטער אין דער אַנדערער ריכטונג. מיר
װייסען נישט אויב זײַן אַװעקגיין איז בכּיוונדיק, אָבאַר ס׳איז קלאָר אַז אַפֿילו
ווען דער רעדנער װאָלט אַנטלויפֿען, גייט גאָט נאָך אים אומעטום און אַפֿילו רירט
אים.
            העשלס שורות זײַנען פֿול מיט
פּאָעטישע אימאַזשן, און דער רעדנער האָט נישט קיין מורא פֿון פֿאַרגלײַכן גאָט
מיט פֿיזישע זאַכן. אין דער צווייטער סטראָפֿע, משלט ער אָפּ גאָט מיט אַ װאַלד.
דאָס הייסט, אַז גאָט גייט אים נאָך אין די װילסדטע ערטער, אפֿילו הינטער די
באַקאַנטע רעליגיעזע פּלעצער, װי דער שול אָדער דער בית-המדרש. אָבער העשל האָט
געקליבן זײַנע װערטער מיט אָפּגעהיטנקייט. עס קען זײַן אַז דער אייבערשטער גייט
אים נאָך אַרײַן אין דעם װאַלד, אָבער מע׳קען אויך פֿאַרשטיין פֿון דער
פֿאַרגלײַכונג אַז גאָט אַליין איז דער װאַלד. גאָטס ״זײַן״, זײַן אָנװעזנקייט,
איז װילד און אויסװעפּיק, אָבער אויך קאָנסטאַנט און נאַטירליך.
            גאָטס געהויבנקייט איז
בלענדיק, און ס׳איז אויך נישט צו באַשרײַבן. העשלס רעדנער שװײַגט װי אַ קינד װאָס
געפֿינט זיך אין אַ צושטאַנד מיט װוּנדער; ער קען נישט זאָגן אַרויס די קדושה װאָס
שטייט פֿאַר אים. די הייליקטום איז אַלט און אָנגעזען, און עס קען סימבאָליזירן
דער מסורה. דאָס שטעלט פֿאָר אַ פּאַראַדאָקס׃ גאָטס קדושה געפֿינט זיך טאַקע
אומעטום, אָבער מען קען נישט באַשרײַבן זי מיט װערטער. ס׳איז נישט אין גאַנצן
קלאָר, צי דער רעדנער שװײַגט פֿאַרן גאָט אַליין , אָדער אפֿשר קען ער נישט
באַשרײַבן די איבערלעבונג צו אַן אַנדערן מענטשן. אָבער ס׳איז פֿאַראַן אַ צווייטן
שיכט פֿונעם פּאַראַדאָקס׃ אין דעם ליד איז גאָט אומבאַשרײַבלעך, אָבער דווקא װעגן
דעם איז אַ שיין ליד געשריבן געװאָרן.
            אַזוי אומפֿאַרמײַדלעך און
אָן בעװוּסטזײַן ווי אַ שוידער, באַגלייט גאָט דעם רעדנער אומעטום. אין דער דריטער
סטראָפֿע כאַפּן מיר אַ בליק אויף דעם אינעװייניקסטן קאָנפֿליקט װאָס קומט אין דעם
רעדנער פֿאָר. ער װיל נאָר רוען, אפֿשר באַרײַסן פֿון זײַן אומענדיקן געראַנגל מיט
גאָט. אָבער עפּעס איז מעורר אין אים און ער קען נישט בלײַבן אָדער פּאַסיװ אָדער
פֿרידלעך. מיט דעם באַפֿעל ״קוּם,״ אַ װאָרט אין װאָס מען הערט די קולות פֿון די
נבֿיאים, מוז מוז ער שטיין אויף און זען אַז די ערדישע גאַסן האַלטן אַן אוצר פֿון
נבֿואות. ס׳איז דאָ נישטאָ קיין מקום-מקלט פֿאַר דעם רעדנער.
            אין דער װײַטערדיקער
סטראָפֿע גייט דער רעדנער דורך דער װעלט מיט ״רעיונות,״ דאָס הייסט מחשבֿות,
הרהורים, אָדער געדאַנקען. העשל באַשרײַבט די װעלט װי אַ קאָרידאָר, און ער ניצט
דעם לשון פֿון דער משנה אין װאָס װערט די װעלט גערופֿט פּשוט אַ ״פרוזדוד״ פֿאַר
דער שיינהייט פֿון יענער װעלט. דער אימאַזש פֿון אַ קאָרידאָר מיינט װײַטער אַז
דער רעדנער האָט זיך אָנגעהויבן אויף אין גאָר אַ חשובֿע רײַזע; ער האָט אַ װעג
בײַצוגאַנגען. ער גייט מיט אַ סוד, דהיינו די מיסטישע וויסיקייט פֿון גאָטס
אָנװעזנקייט. אָבער ס׳איז נישט אַזוי פּשוט, װײַל ער זעט דעם אייבערשטערס
״פּנימלאָזע פּנים״ טאַקע זעלטן. אויב אַזוי, װאָס פֿאַר אַ מיסטישן ״סוד״ האָט
ער? אפֿשר דער רבונו-של-עולם באַהאַלט זיך, אָבער ס׳איז אויך מעגלעך אַז ער איז
דאָ די גאַנצע צײַט און דער רעדנער בליוז קען נישט קוקן גלײַך אויף אים. צום סוף
לאָזט העשל די צװייטײַטשיקייט צו בלײַבן אין שפאַנונג.
            צווישן די פֿירטע און
פֿינפֿטע סטראָפֿעס ס׳איז פֿאַראַן אַ ליניע, װאָס סימבאָליזירט דעם איבערגאַנג
אין דער מאָדערנער, שטאָטישער װעלט. נאָך די פֿריִערדיקע סטראָפֿעס פֿון נאַטורעלע
זאַכן װי ליכט, װעלדער און שוידערן, געפֿינט דער רעדנער זײַן באַגלײַטער אין דער
װעלט פֿון טעכנאָלאָגיע און קולטור. גאָט איז דאָ אין דער שטאָט, אָבער אויך דאָרטן
קען מען נישט אים זען מיט געוויינטלעכע אויגען; מען דערפֿילט געטליכקייט נאָר מיט
״רוקענס פֿון אַפּלען.״ אינטראָספּעקציע, קוקן אַרײַן אין זיך אַליין, איז דער
שליסל צו געפֿינען דעם טיפֿען אמת. מיר האָבן שוין געליינט אין דער דריטער
סטראָפֿע, װי דער רעדנער באַפֿעלט זיך, ״קום!״ דער אימפּעראַטיוו קומט פֿון זײַן
טיפֿעניש. איצט זעען מיר, אַז דאָס רעדנער מוז קוקן אין זיך  כּדי צו געפֿינען די װיכטיקע חזיונות און
סודות.
            לייענדיק דעם גאַנצן ליד,
מוז מען פֿרעגן, צי איז דער רעדנער אויך דער דיכטער? צי באַשרײַבט העשל זײַנע
אייגענע ״רעיונות״ װעגן גאָט און דער טרעדיציע? צי קענען מיר געפֿינען דעם
געראַנגל העשלען אין דער טעקסט? עס דאַכט זיך, אַז העשל האָט נישט געהאַט אַ קיין
סך עסטעטישע ווײַטקייט פֿון זײַן דיכטונג. די רײַזע פֿון דעם רעדנער דערמאָנט
העשלס נסיעה פֿון זײַן חסידישער משפּחה פֿון װאַרשע קיין װילנע און דערנאָך קיין
בערלין. שפּעטער אין זײַן לעבן האָט העשל געשריבן װעגן זײַן איבערלעבונג פֿון גאָט
אין דעם מאָדערנישעם שטאָט.[9] די סצענע פֿונעם ליד בײַט זיך איבער דורך די פֿינף
סטראָפֿעס פֿון װאַלד צו שטאָט, אילוסטרירן אַ רײַזע װאָס איז סײַ גײַסטיקע סײַ
פֿיזישע. מען קען נישט זײַן הונדערט פּראָצענט זיכער, אָבער דער רעדנער און העשל
זײַנען געגענגן אויף דעם זעלבן װעג.
            װאָס נאָך, עס איז זיכער
נישטאָ קיין צופֿאַל אַז ס׳זײַנען פֿאַראַן אַ סך דײַטשמעריזמס אין העשלס ליד, און
גאָר װייניק לשון-קודשדיקע װערטער. ער האָט נישט גערופֿט גאָט מיט איינער פֿון
זײַנע טראַדיציאָנעלע יידישע נעמען, און ער האָט נישט געשעפּט פֿון דעם
לשון-קודשדיקן קאָמפּאַנענט פֿון ייִדיש אפֿילו װען ער האָט עס געקענט טאָן. למשל,
שרײַבט העשל ״הייליקטום״ אַנשטאָט קדושה, ״זעונגען״ אַנשטאָט נבֿיאות, און
״װיזיעס״ אַנשטאָט חזיונות. מיט דעם פֿעלן פֿון יידישע װערטער האָט דער דיכטער
געגעבן זײַן יידיש טעקסט אַן אַלװעלטלעכן טאָן, און געמאַכט דעם ליד אַ כּלי צו
האַלטען אוניװערסעלע און עקסיסטענציעל דילעמעס.
            אָבער כאָטש דער רעדנער רעדט
מיט אוניװערסאַלע װערטער, מוז מען פֿאַרשטיין, אַז דאָס ליד גיט אָפּ נאָר די
איבערגלעבונג פֿון איין מענטש, װאָס שרײַבט אין דעם ערשטן פּערזאָן. דער רעדנער
באַשרײַבט װי גאָט גייט נאָך אים און נישט נאָך אַלע מען. פֿון איין זײַט,
דאַכט זיך אַז דער תּוכן פֿונעם ליד איז זייער ענג און באַגרענעצט. דער לייענער
קען קוקן אַרײַן נאָר פֿון אויסנװייניק. אָבער פֿון דער אַנדערער זײַט, האָבן
העשלס מאָדערנישע װיסיקייט און בילדונג געעפֿענט אים צו אַספּעקטן פֿון דעם
מענטשלעכען מצבֿ װײַטער פֿון זײַן חסידישער חינוך. דער רעדנער, װאָס האָט נישט
קיין בפֿירוש רעלעגיעזע אָדער קולטורעלע אידענטיטעט, האָט אַ שײַכות צו גאָט װאָס
יעדער איינער קען פֿאַרשטיין. עס קען זײַן אַז העשל איז דער רעדנער, אָבער זײַנע
רײַזע און געראַנגל זײַנען אַלמענטשלעכע.
            די ערשטע דרײַ סטראָפֿעס
װערן אָפּגעבויט פֿון דער גראַם-סכעמע פֿון א/א/א. דאָס לעצטען װאָרט אין יעדער
שורה ענדיקט זיך מיט דעם אייגענעם קלאַנג (״אוּם״), און דאָס גיט דעם ליד אַ חוש
פֿון גאַנצקייט און קאָנטינויִטעט. אָבער דער סטרוקטור בײַט זיך אין דעם פֿערטער
סטראָפֿע. זי הייבט זיך נישט אָן מיט דעם צוזונג ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך״, און די
שורות זײַנען אויף אַן א/ב/א גראַם-סכעמע. כאָטש אין דער לעצטער סטראָפֿע קומט דער
רעפֿריין און דער גראַם צוריק, אפֿשר סימבאָלירט עס, אַז דער רעדנער האָט זיך
אויפֿגעהערט אַנטלויפֿען פֿון דעם אייבערשטער. צום סוף איז ער מקבל-באהבֿה געװען
אַז דער רבונו-של-עולם װעט גייען נאָך אים טאַקע אומעטום.
            לאָמיר נעמען אַ הפֿסקה פֿון
אונדזער לייענונג פֿון העשלס ליד, און פֿאַרגלייכן אים מיט אַן אַנדערן טעקסט פֿון
דער יידישער טראַדיציִע. די רײַזע, אָדער דאָס זוך, אין מיטן העשלס ליד ליד איז
זייער ענלעך צו דער מעשׂה פֿון תהלים קל״ט. ווי העשלס ליד, דערציילט תּהלים קל״ט
אַ גישיכטע פֿון עמעצען װאָס האָט געפּרוּווט אַנטצולויפֿען פֿון גאָט. די
געגליכנקייט איז סובטיל אָבער שטאַרק, און מען קען לייענען העשלס ליד װי אַ
הײַנטיקע איבערזעצונג פֿון דוד המלך׳ס ערנסטע פּסוקים. לאָמיר קוקן אַרײַן אין אַ
טייל פֿונעם קאַפּיטל׃
װוּהין זאָל איך אַװעקגײן פֿון
דײַן גײַסט?
און װוּהין זאָל איך פֿון דײַן
פּנים אַנטלױפֿן?
זאָל איך אַרױפֿגײן אין הימל,
ביסטו דאָרטן,
און זאָל איך מיר אױסבעטן אין
אונטערערד, ערשט ביסט דאָ.
זאָל איך נעמען די פֿליגלען
פֿון באַגינען,
זאָל איך רוען אין עק פֿון ים,
װעט אױך דאָרטן מיך פֿירן דײַן
האַנט,
און מיך װעט האַלטן דײַן
רעכטע.
און זאָל איך זאָגן: לױטער
פֿינצטערניש זאָל מיך באַדעקן,
און נאַכט זאָל דאָס ליכט פֿאַר
מיר װערן,
איז אױך פֿינצטערניש ניט
פֿינצטער פֿאַר דיר,
און נאַכט טוט אַזױ װי דער טאָג
לײַכטן; אַזױ פֿינצטערקײט אַזױ
ליכטיקײט…[10]
אין דעם קאַפּיטל תּהלים
זעען מיר אַ באַקענטער געראַנגל׃ דער רעדנער קען נישט פֿליִען פֿונעם אייבערשטערן,
אַפֿילו װען ער גייט ממש צום עק פֿון דער װעלט. גאָט איז פֿאַראַן אומעטום, אין
הימל און דאָך אין גהינום, און דעריבער איז דער העלד פֿול מיט יראת-הכּבֿוד. העשל
ציטירט נישט דעם קאַפּיטל, אָבער די ענלעכקייט צווישן דעם ליד און דעם הייליקן
טעקסט איז קלאָר און בולט. די צוויי רעדנערס שרײַבן װעגן גאָטס נאַטירלעכע און
אוניװערסאַלע פֿאַראַנענקייט, און די שורות האַלטן אַ סך פֿיזישע אימאַזשן װאָס
זײַנען אויך גײַסטיקע מעטאַפֿאָרן; אין ביידן זעט דער לייענער אַ רײַזע װאָס איז
ביידע פֿיזיש ביידע רוחניותדיק.
            ס׳זײַנען פֿאַראַן אויך
עטלעכע װיכטיקע אונטערשיידן צווישן העשלס ליד און דעם קאַפּיטל תּהלים. למשל,
האָבן די צוויי טעקסטן באַזונדערע מוסר-השׂכּלען. אין תּהלים רירט דער רעדנער
אַהין און צוריק, אָבער דער אייבערשטער שטייט גאַנצן סטאַטיק. דער העלד געפֿינט
גאָטס גדולה אומעטום, און דער אייבערשטער איז אַלמעכטיק און אַלװייסנדיק. אָבער
אין העשלס ליד ביידע גאָט און דער רעדנער גייען צוזאַמן. דער רבונו-של-עולם זוכט
און גייט נאָך דעם רעדנער אַהער און אַהין װי אַ שאָטן, און דאָס װאָס איז אַם
װיכטיקסטן איז דאָס װאָס דער רעדנער איז דער אקטיװער אַגענט.
            צי איז העשלס ליד אַ מרד
קעגן זײַן חסידישער קינדהייט און דערציונג? דאָס ליד, מען קען זאָגן, האָט נישט
דעם כּעס און ביטערקייט װאָס געפֿינען זיך אין לידער פֿון אַנדערע יידישע
שרײַבערס, װאָס זײַנען אַרויסגעקומען פֿון אַ טרעדיציאָנעלער סבֿיבֿה. אַ טייל
פֿון די שרײַבערס און דיכטער האָבן געראַנגלט מיט אַ יידישקייט װאָס האָט זיי
געשליסן אין קייטן. אָבער אַנדערע אויטאָרן, װי דעם באַרימטען י.ל. פּרץ, האָבן
געניצט די לשון, טעמעס און מוסר-השׂכּלען פֿון חסידישע סיפּורים צו שאַפֿן אַ
רעליגיִעזע ליטעראַטור מיט אַ נײַ געמיט.[11] עס דאַכט זיך, אַז העשל װאָלט
אויסברייטערן די גרענעצן פֿון יידישקייט, אָבער ער טוט דאָס מיט װוּנדער אַנטשטאָט
בייזער. לויט העשל איז גאָט פֿאַראַן אַפֿילו אין דער ערדישער מאָדערנישער װעלט,
װאָס איז דאָך אַ פֿרוכטבאַרער גרונט פֿאַר שעפֿערישקייט און רוחניותדיקע
װאַקסונג. דער רעדנער גייט אַרום אין דער נײַער װעלט, און דער אייבערשטער גייט אים
נאָך מיט אַ מיסטישע גוטהאַרציקייט אַזוי סובטיל אַז מ׳קען אַפֿילו נישט זאָגן זי
אַרויס. העשל און זיין רעדנער שאַפֿן אַ פּאָעטישע עסטעטיק װאָס שמעלצט צונויף
מאָדערנע װיסיקייט און טראַדיציאָנעלע רוחניות.
            העשלס לידער זײַנען געשריבן
געװאָרן זייער פֿרי אין זײַן קאַריערע. זײַן פּראָזע פֿון דער נאָך-מלחמהדיקער
תקופֿה האָט דעם זעלבע תּפֿילותדיקן  און
לירישן ריטמוס, אָבער דער קליינער באַנד פֿון 1933 איז זײַן איינציקע פּאָעטישע
אונטערנעמונג. פֿאַרװאָס? אפֿשר מחמת דעם חורבן האָט העשל אָפּגעלאָזט זײַן אמונה
אין דעם אוניװערסעל עסטעטיק, און אפֿשר איז ער זיך מיאש געװאָרן פֿון פּאָעזיע װי
אַ גאַנג איבערצוגעבן זײַנע אינערלעכע איבערלעבונגען. אָדער אפֿשר העשל האָט
געטראַכט אַז אין אַמעריקע ס׳זײַנען געװען נישטאָ קיין לייענערס װאָס װעלן זיך
אינטערעסירן מיט אַזעלכע לידער אויפֿן יידישן שפּראַך. ער האָט יאָ געשריבן װעגן
דעם חורבן אויף יידיש,[12] אָבער נישט מיט לידער. אַנדערע ייִדישע דיכטער װי אהרן
צייטלן, קאדיע מאָלאָדאָווסקי און יעקב גלאַטשטיין האָבן געשריבן װעגן דעם חורבן
מיט שורות און גראַמען,[13] אָדער העשל האָט קיין מאָל נישט איבערגעקערט צו דער
פּאָעזיע. בלויז אין זײַנע פֿריִיִקע יאָרן האָט העשל געניצט לידער אויסצופֿאַרשט
די שפּאַנונג צווישן מאָדערנהייט און מסורה. נאָך ער איז געװען ממשיך באַשרײַבן די
דיאַלעקטיק צווישן אוניװערסעל הומאַניזם און יידיש רוחניות אין זײַנע פּראָזע
ביכער אויף אַן אַנדערער יידישער שפּראַך׃ ענגליש.
[1] ראשית-כּל װעל איך דאַנקן מײַן גוטע חברטע סוני יודקאָף. זי האָט מיר
געהעלפֿט מיט דעם לשון פֿונעם אַרטיקל, און דערצו האָט מיר געגעבן קלוגע און
ניצלעכע באַמערקונגען. װעל איך אויך דאַנקן פּראָפֿ׳ דוב-בער קערלער, דער טײַערער
און אומפֿאַרמאַטערלעכער רעדאַקטאָר פֿונעם ״ירושלימער אַלמאַנאַך״
[2] פֿאַר אַ װוּנדערלעכע פֿאַרזאַמלונג פֿון לידער פֿון דער תקופֿה אויף
צוויי שפּראכן, זע׳ האו (1987).
[3] ארתּור גרין (1996), עדוואַרד קאַפּלאַן (1996), און אלכּסנדר אבן חן
(2011) האָבן באַשרײַבט העשלס ייִדישע לידער. װעגן העשלס באַציונג צו דעם ייִדישן
שפּראך, זע׳ שאַנדלער (1993).
[4] אַ נײַע ביאָגראַפֿיע פֿון העשלן אין צוויי בענד איז אנולמלט אַרויס; זע׳
קאַפּלאַן און דרעסנער (2007 און 2009).
[5] פֿאַר אַ צוויישפּראַכיקע איבערזעצונג פֿון מאָרטאָן מ. לייפֿמאַן; זע׳
העשל (2004). ר׳ זאַלמן שעכטער-שלומי האָט איבערגעזעצט העשלס פֿאָעמעס אין די
זיבעציקע יאָרן, אָבער די איבערזעצונג איז אַרויס נאָר פֿאַר אַ פּאָר יאָרן; זע׳
העשל (2012). איצט קען מען אַראָפּלאָדן דעם אָריגענאַלעם בוך דאָ׃ http://archive.org/details/nybc202672..
[6] ישראל שטערן האָט געשריבן אַ טשיקאַווע קריטיק פֿון העשלס באַנד אין דער
צײַטונגען הײַנט; זע׳ שטערן (1934).
[7] דאָס ליד איז אַרויס נאָך אַ מאָל אינעם בוך חסידישע ירושה אין דער
ייִדישער ליטעראַטור
(1981׃ 19).
[8] דוד קויגן איז געװען איינער פֿון העשלס לערערס אין בערלין, און בײַ אים
האָט העשל זיך געלערנט פּוליטיק, געשיכטע, רעליגיע, און ליטעראַטור. װי העשל,
קויגן איז אויפֿגעהאָדעוועט געװאָרן אין אַ חסידישער משפּחה, און ער האָט
אונטערגענומען אַן אַנלעכע רײַזע אַװעק פֿון זײַנע אָפּשטאַמען מיט דרייסיק יאָר
צוריק. די צוויי זײַנען געװען זייער נאָענט, און מע׳קען זאָגן אַז זיי האָבן
געהאַט אַ בשותּפֿותדיק שפּראַך. קויגן איז ניפֿטר געװאָרן אין מאַרץ 1933, און
דער טויט פֿון זײַן לערער איז געװען טאַקע שװער פֿאַר העשל. זע׳ קאַפּלאַן און
דרעסנער, (2007׃ 177-108).
[9] זע׳ העשל (1954) 98-94. אָבער אין זײַנע שפּעטערדיקע שריפֿטן ס׳איז קלאָר
אַז עפּעס האָט זיך געביטן. דאָרטן ס׳איז דאָ אַן עלעמענט פֿון דער מאָדערנישער
װעלט װאָס פֿרעמדט אים אָפּ, און מאַכט אים פֿאַרגעסען זײַן פֿאַרבינדונג מיט גאָט
און די איבערלעבונג פֿון קדושה און מסורה.
[10] תהלים קל״ט, ז-יב, איבערזעצונג פֿון יהואַש. זע׳ http://yiddish.haifa.ac.il/texts/yehoyesh/rev2004/tilim.pdf
[11] זע׳ ראָס (2010).
[12] זע׳ פייערשטיין (1999).
[13] זע׳ די לידער אין צייטלין (1970); די ליד ״אָן ייִדן״ אין גלאַטשטיין
(1956׃ 201), איבגערגעזעצט אין האַו (1987׃ 437-435); די ליד ״אל חנון״ אין
מאָלאָדאָווסקי (1946׃ 3), איבגערגעזעצט אין האַו (1987׃333-331). זע׳ אויך די
לידער אין מאָלאָדאָווסקי (1962).
ביבליאָגראַפֿישע קוועלן
Even-Chen, Alexander.
“On the Ineffable Name of God and the Prophet Abraham: An Examination of
the Existential-Hasidic Poetry of Abraham Joshua Heschel”. Modern
Judaism
31.1 (2011), pp. 23-57
Faierstein, Morris M.
“Abraham Joshua Heschel and the Holocaust”. Modern Judaism 19.3
(1999), pp. 255-275.
Green, Arthur.
“Three Warsaw Mystics”. Kolot Rabim: Rivkah Shatz-Uffenheimer
Memorial Volume
, II. Edited by Rachel Elior and Joseph Dan (Jerusalem: Hebrew
University, 1996), pp. 1-58.
Heschel, Abraham Joshua.
Human–God’s Ineffable Name. Translated by Zalman M. Schachter-Shalomi.
Boulder, CO: Albion-Andalus, Inc., 2012.
Heschel, Abraham Joshua.
The Ineffable Name of God–Man: Poems. Translated from the Yiddish by
Morton M. Leifman; introduction by Edward K. Kaplan. New York: Continuum,
2004).
Heschel, Abraham Joshua.
Man’s Quest for God: Studies in Prayer and Symbolism (Santa Fe, NM:
Aurora Press, 1954).
Howe, Irving, Ruth R.
Wisse and Khone Shmeruk. The Penguin Book of Modern Yiddish Verse. New
York: Viking, 1987.
Kaplan, Edward K. and
Samuel H. Dresner. Abraham Joshua Heschel: Prophetic Witness. New Haven,
CT: Yale University Press, 2007.
Kaplan, Edward K. Holiness
in Words: Abraham Joshua Heschel’s Poetics of Piety
. Albany: State
University of New York Press, 1996.
Kaplan, Edward K. Spiritual
Radical: Abraham Joshua Heschel in America, 1940-1972
. New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 2009.
Shandler, Jeffrey.
“Heschel and Yiddish: A Struggle with Signification”. Journal of
Jewish Thought & Philosophy
2.2 (1993), pp. 245-299.
גלאַטשטיין, יעקב. פֿון
מיין גאַנצער מי
(ניו יאָרק, 1956).
חסידישע ירושה אין דער
ייִדישער ליטעראַטור
(בוענאָס
איירעס, 1981).
מאלאדאווסקי, קאדיע. דער
מלך דוד אליין איז געבליבן ניו יאָרק
(ניו יאָרק, 1946).
מאלאדאווסקי, קאדיע. לידער
פון חורבן ת״ש-תש״ה
(תל-אבֿיבֿ, 1962), 19-212.
צייטלין, אהרן. ״לידער פון
חורבן און לידער פון גלויבן״. אלע לידער און פאעמעס (ניו יאָרק, 1970).
רוס, ניחם. מסורת אהובה
ושנואה: זהות יהודית מודרנית וכתיבה ניאו-חסידית בפתח המאה העשרים
(באר שבע:
הוצאת הספרים של אוניברסיטת בן-גוריון בנגב, 2010).
שטערן, ישראל. ״מענטש׃
קריטישע באַמערקונגען״. היינט 27, נומ׳ 129, יוני 8, 1934, ז׳ 7.

 

 

[1] See Edward K. Kaplan, Holiness in Words: Abraham Joshua Heschel’s
Poetics of Piety
(New York: State University of New York Press, 1996); Alexander Even-Chen, “On the Ineffable Name of
God and the Prophet Abraham: An Examination of the Existential-Hasidic Poetry
of Abraham Joshua Heschel,” Modern Judaism31, no. 1 (2011): 23-58; Alan Brill, “Aggadic
Man: The Poetry and Rabbinic Thought of Abraham Joshua Heschel,” Meorot 6,
no. 1 (2006): 1-21; Eugene D. Matanky, “The Mystical Element in Abraham Joshua
Heschel’s Theological-Political Thought,” Shofar
35, no. 3 (2017): 33-55.
[2] See Arthur Green, “Abraham
Joshua Heschel: Recasting Hasidism for Moderns,” Modern Judaism 29.1 (2009): 62-79; ibid, “God’s Need for Man: A Unitive Approach to the
Writings of Abraham Joshua Heschel,” Modern
Judaism
35,
no. 3 (2015): 247-261.
[3] Hillel Zeitlin, Hasidic
Spirituality for a New Era: The Religious Writings of Hillel Zeitlin
,
trans. Arthur Green, with prayers trans. Joel Rosenberg (New York: Paulist
Press, 2012), 194-229.
[4] See Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Ineffable Name of God: Man, trans.
Morton M. Leifman, (New York: Continuum, 2005); Zalman Schachter-Shalomi’s
evocative translations of these poems have recently been published as Abraham
Joshua Heschel, Human—God’s Ineffable Name (Boulder: Albion-Andalus
Books, 2012).
[5] Rather than exploring treatments
of this theme throughout Heschel’s volume, the present foray modestly focuses
on a close reading of a single poem.
[6] Alexander Even-Chen, “God’s Omnipotence and Presence in
Abraham Joshua Heschel’s Philosophy.” Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies 26, no. 1 (2007): 41-71.
[7] See Elliot R. Wolfson, “Concealment and Revelation:
Esotericism in Jewish Thought and its Philosophical Implications,” Journal of Religion in Europe 2, no. 3 (2009): 314-318; and ibid, Open Secret: Postmessianic Messianism and the Mystical Revision
of Menahem Mendel Schneerson
.
(New York: Columbia University Press, 2010).
[8] Leifman, The Ineffable Name, 57.
[9] Jeffrey Shandler, “Heschel and Yiddish: A Struggle with
Signification,” The Journal of Jewish
Thought and Philosophy
2,
no. 2 (1993): 245-299, esp. 252.
[10] Shachter-Shalomi, 21, reads “And
blinds // My sightless back // Like a flaming son.”
[11] See Maggid Devarav le-Ya ‘akov,
ed. Schatz-Uffenheimer (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1976), no. 126, 217-219.
[12] This type of comparison was a
literary device frequently employed by Heschel, and indeed served as the basis
for entire fifth section of The Ineffable
Name
. See Green, “Recasting Hasidism,” 66-7; Shandler, “Heschel and
Yiddish,” 254.
[13] Continuing the forest image,
Shachter-Shalomi, 21, reads “Like a child lost // In an ancient // And sacred
grove.”
[14] Avot 4:16.
[15] This element comes through more
strongly in Schachter-Shalomi’s translation, which emphasizes the narrator’s
rootless and transitory experience, “… visions // Walk like the homeless / On
the streets. / My thoughts walk about / Like a vagrant mystery—.” See
Schachter-Shalomi, Human, 21-22.
[16] Cf. Abraham
Joshua Heschel, Man’s Quest for God: Studies in Prayer and Symbolism (New
York: Scribner, 1954), 94-98.
[17] Shandler, “Heschel and Yiddish,”
259.
[18] See lines 6, 9, and 15,
respectively.
[19] Shandler, “Heschel and Yiddish,”
259.
[20] Robert Alter, The Book of
Psalms: A Translation with Commentary
(New York and London: W. W. Norton
and Company, 2009), 479.
[21] See Morris M. Faierstein, “Abraham Joshua Heschel
and the Holocaust,” Modern Judaism 19, no. 3 (1999): 255-275; Alexander Even-Chen, “Abraham Joshua Heschel’s Pre-and
Post-Holocaust Approach to Hasidism,” Modern
Judaism
 34,
no. 2 (2014): 139-166.
[22] Abraham Joshua Heschel, God
in Search of Man: A Philosophy of Judaism
(New York: Farrar, Straus and
Giroux, 1983) 136.



The Universalism of Rav Kook

The
Universalism of Rav Kook
by
Bezalel Naor
Copyright
©
2018 Bezalel Naor

Stereotypes are difficult to overcome. Until
recently, the stereotype of Rav Avraham Yitzhak Hakohen Kook (1865-1935) was of
a nationalist (perhaps even ultranationalist) who lent his rabbinic aegis to
the Zionist enterprise in the first third of the twentieth century.
In his seminal work Orot [Lights]
(Jerusalem, 1920), the very first section of the book is entitled “Erets
Yisrael.”
The punchline of the first chapter reads:
The expectation of
salvation (tsefiyat ha-yeshu‘ah) is the force that preserves exilic
Judaism; the Judaism of the Land of Israel is salvation itself (ha-yeshu‘ah
‘atsmah
).
Thus, Rav Kook placed Israel’s return to its
ancestral homeland front and center, and provided it with theological
underpinnings sorely lacking in the secular Zionist movement.
In this respect, Rav Kook’s bold initiative,
courageous and outspoken, at times alienated him from his more
conservative-minded rabbinic peers. The Gerrer Rebbe, Avraham Mordechai Alter
(1866-1948), wrote in a much publicized letter:
The Rav, the Gaon R.
Avraham Kook, may he live, is a man of many-sided talents in Torah, and noble
traits. Also, it is public knowledge that he loathes money. However, his love
for Zion surpasses all limit and he “declares the impure pure and adduces proof
to it.”…From this, came the strange things in his books.
With the passage of time and the publication of many
hitherto suppressed manuscripts, we become increasingly aware of another facet
to the extremely complex personality of Rav Kook: the cosmopolitan or
universalist. Rav Kook’s passionate love for his land and his nation of Israel,
in no way vitiated the larger scope of his Messianic or utopian vision. Such an
illuminating manuscript is that designated Pinkas 5, published this year
of 2018 by Boaz Ofen in volume 3 of his ongoing series Kevatsim mi-Khetav
Yad Kodsho
[Journals from Manuscript]. The Pinkas has been
dated by the Editor to the years 1907-1913, during which time Rav Kook served
as Rabbi of Jaffa.
In the following pensée (perhaps essay is the
better word), Rav Kook argues that just as the “seventy nations” of the world
form an organic unity, the proverbial “family of man,” so too the various faith
communities or religions complement one another in a parallel organic unity.
Though Rav Kook probably never heard of the mythic
bird Simorgh—who figures prominently in the twelfth-century work The Conference
of the Birds
by the Persian poet Farid ud-Din Attar—Rav
Kook’s imagery is roughly reminiscent. In that allegorical tale, the birds of
the world set out to find a leader. It has been suggested to them that they
appoint as their king the legendary Simorgh. To reach the remote mountain abode
of the Simorgh, the birds must embark on a perilous journey. Most of the birds
succumb to the elements along the way. At journey’s end, there remain but
thirty birds. They discover that they themselves, together, form the sought
Simorgh. In Persian, “Simorgh” means “thirty birds” (si-morgh).
Lest the reader mistakenly surmise that Rav Kook
suggests that the faith of Israel will in some way be subordinated to a higher
unity, Rav Kook’s bottom line reads:
And with this,
automatically the horn of Israel must be uplifted.
“Bow
down to Him, all gods”
[Psalms
97:7].
***
The aspiration to bring
peace to the world, has always been the aspiration of Israel. This is the
interior of the soul of Knesset Israel (Ecclesia Israel), which
was given full expression by the chosen of her children, the Prophets who
foresaw at the End of Days humanity’s happiness and world peace.
However, light advances
slowly. The strides made are not discernible because divine patience is great,
and that which appears in the eyes of flesh insignificant—is truly exalted from
the vantage of the supernal eye. “In the place of its greatness, there you find
its humility.”[1]
Even in the worst life; the hardest, lowest, most sinful life—there is abundant
light and sufficient place for the divine love to appear. That life need not be
erased from existence, but rather uplifted to a higher niveau. There is no
vacuum,[2] no
empty space; every level needs to be filled.
Truly world peace, in
the material sense, comes into our vision. The nationalism that ruled supreme
during the days of “barbarism,” when each nation perceived a foreign nation as
uncivilized,[3]
[and held] that all man’s obligations to man are cancelled in regard to the
“barbarians”—this evil notion is being erased. On the other hand, with the
passing of generations, the intellect, the light of fairness, and the necessity
of life—the windows through which the divine light wends its way—all together
impress the stamp of universal peace upon the national character. Gradually,
there arrives the recognition that humanity’s division into nations, does not
pit them against one another, such that nations cannot dwell together on the
planet Earth. Rather, their relation is organic—just as individuals relate to
the nation, and the limbs to the body. This notion, when completely manifest,
shall renew the face of the world, purifying hearts of their wickedness and
uplifting souls.
However, the relation
of nations—their pacification—must correspond to the relation of religions. A
complete nationalism is not possible without correlate feelings of holiness.
Those sentiments—whether few or many—change opinions; those sentiments are
sensitive to the variables of geography and history.[4]
Peace between nations
cannot come about by minimizing the value of nationalism. On the contrary,
people of good will recognize that just as the feeling for family is
respectable and pleasant, holy and pure, and were it to be lost from the world,
humanity would lose with it a great treasure of happiness and holiness—so the
loss of the “national family” [i.e. nationalism] and all the sentiments and delicate
ideas bound to it, would leave in its place a destruction that would bring to
the collective soul a frustration much more painful than all the pains that it
suffered on account of the demarcation of nationalism.
Humanity must receive
the good and reject the evil. The force of repulsion and the force of
attraction together build the material world; and the cosmopolitan and national
forces together build the palace of humanity and its world of good fortune.[5]
As it is in regard to nationalism,
so it is in regard to religions. It is not the removal of religion—that will
bring bliss, but rather the religious perceptions eventually relating to one
another in a bond of friendship. (With the removal of religion there would pass
from the world a great treasure of strength and life; inestimable treasures of
good.) Every thought of enmity, of opposition, of destruction, will dissipate
and disappear. There will remain in the religions only the higher, inner,
universal purpose, full of holy light and true peace, a treasure of light and
eternal life. The religions will recognize each other as brothers; [will
recognize] how each serves its purpose within its boundary, and does what it
must do in its circle. The relation of one religion to another will be organic.
This realization automatically brings about (and is brought about by) the
higher realization of the unity of the light of Ein Sof [the Infinite],
that manifests upon and through all. And with this, automatically the horn of
Israel must be uplifted.
“Bow
down to Him, all gods”
[Psalms
97:7].
(Kevatsim
mi-Khetav Yad Kodsho
, ed. Boaz Ofen, vol. 3 [Jerusalem, 2018], Pinkas 5,
par. 43 [pp. 96-97])

[1] A play upon the
saying of Rabbi Yoḥanan in b. Megillah 31a: “Wherever you find the strength
of the Holy One, blessed be He, you find His humility.”
[2] Based on the
saying attributed to Aristotle: “Nature abhors a vacuum.”
[3] Rav Kook
explains the meaning of the original Greek word “barbaros” (βάρβαρος).
[4] Cf. this
passage in ‘Arpilei Tohar:
Messiah will
interpret the Torah of Moses, by revealing in the world how all the peoples and
divisions of mankind derive their spiritual nourishment from the one fundamental
source, while the content conforms to the spirit of each nation according to
its history and all its distinctive features, be they temperamental or
climatological; [according to] all the economic vagaries and the variables of psychology—so
that the wealth of specificity lacks for nothing. Nevertheless, all will bond
together and derive nourishment from one source, with a supernal friendship and
a strong inner assurance.
“‘The Lord will
give a saying; the heralds are a great host’ [Psalms 68:12]—Every word that
emitted from the divine mouth divided into seventy languages” (b. Shabbat
88b).
(‘Arpilei
Tohar
[Jerusalem, 1983], pp. 62-63)
‘Arpilei Tohar was first
printed in Jerusalem in 1914, before the outbreak of World War One. For various
reasons that we need not go into now, that edition remained unbound and
uncirculated. Random copies found their way into private collections. In 1983, ‘Arpilei
Tohar
was reprinted in a slightly censored fashion. The complete contents of
‘Arpilei Tohar are now available in the unexpurgated collection, Shemonah
Kevatsim
, where it is designated “Kovets 2.” This particular
passage occurs in Shemonah Kevatsim (Jerusalem, 2004), 2:177.
[5] Rav Kook likens
nationalism and cosmopolitanism to the repulsive and attractive forces of a
magnet.