Post by Rabbi Neil on Sept 17, 2021 21:05:24 GMT
The Mishnah asks when we should first mention the power of the rain in our prayers? Rabbi Eliezer says that it should be on the first day of Succot while Rabbi Joshua says on the last day. Rabbi Joshua’s opinion seems to make the most sense and he argues accordingly, saying “Seeing that rain during Succot is a sign of Divine anger, why would you mention it at the beginning?” It’s a fair point. Why pray for rain if you’re about to spend a week outdoors! Rabbi Eliezer answers, “I did not say that we pray for rain but merely that we mention rain in its right time.” In other words, the rainy season is upon us so we should mention rain at this time. Again, a logical retort. Rabbi Joshua replies, “If it were the case that we should mention rain at its right time, we should always mention it.” What he means by this is that there are a number of times for rain – Shema mentions the early rains and the late rains, for example. If Rabbi Eliezer were correct then we should at least mention rain at those two differing times of the year. Instead, we start on Succot. The stam d’gemara, the anonymous voice of the editor of the Talmud, makes a ruling, saying that “We pray for rain only close to the rainy season.” In other words, we’re not actually praying for rain, we’re mentioning rain. This means that Talmud comes down on the side of Rabbi Eliezer. And yet it then quotes Rabbi Judah who says that we start mentioning rain on the last day of Succot and we finish mentioning it on the first day of Pesach. Since Rabbi Eliezer said that we mention rain from the first day of Succot, the Talmud disagrees with him here. The season for rain starts at the end of Succot and so that is when we mention rain.
So, if that’s what Talmud says, we have to ask ourselves a question - if it is the case that the rainy season starts at the end of Succot, why does it so rarely rain around that time? Was the Talmud wrong? The answer, of course, is that Talmud is talking about weather patterns in Israel and Babylon, not in Santa Fe. Our rainy season here in Santa Fe is particularly July and August and precipitation decreases significantly after that. Ever since the summer of 2018, I inserted a special prayer for rain during July and August at the end of the T’fillah even though during those months we were using the summer prayer – morid hatal (thanking God for dew) – instead of the winter insertion Mashiv haruach umorid hagashem (thanking God for shifting the wind and making rain fall) in T’fillah. We only switch to the latter traditional insertion at the end of Succot. So, how could we add a prayer for rain while also not adding the traditional prayer for rain?
The answer to that question is, I believe, important for us as we move into the festival of Succot. As I mentioned back in 2018, Rav Joseph Soloveitchik, the famed modern-Orthodox Rabbi, addressed the issue of praying for rain in America. He said that in the United States there is no particular rainy season as in Israel and that America therefore always needs rain. He would therefore recite the prayer all year round, similar to the perspective from the Mishnah that I mentioned at the beginning, that asked, “Wouldn’t we always mention it?” Soloveitchik’s prayer focussed on the immediate needs of the person in prayer, depending on where they were situated. I can respect that. However, I believe that having a prayer for rain during the rainy season in Santa Fe and then another more traditional prayer for rain during the rainy season in Israel connects us across the world in important ways.
On a day when we once again learn that we are doing nowhere near enough to limit the impact of anthropogenic climate change – specifically, we learned today that instead of the absolutely necessary 45% decrease in carbon emissions by 2030, humanity is likely to increase its emissions by 16% in that time – thinking about global weather patterns seems particularly important. If nothing else, as weather patterns shift as a result of our inaction on curbing carbon emissions, reminding ourselves when the rainy season used to be might well become an important act of memory.
There’s a rawness to praying for rain that I think continues the fragility of our existence from Yom Kippur. Where on Yom Kippur, we acknowledged that we lived on a precipice between life and death, that we are not actually in control of our own lives but might be taken by fire, earthquake, plague, violence or any other terrible cause without warning, Succot continues that theme of fragility by reminding us that it’s not just seemingly random events that could change our lives permanently, but also the weather itself, which didn’t used to be random but now is becoming more random the more pollution we spew into the atmosphere. More than that, the difference between Yom Kippur and Succot is the difference between the individual and communal. Violence, fire, and so on are more likely to affect small groups of individuals rather than entire communities, where the lack of rain affects the entire community. Although our prayers on Yom Kippur are almost entirely in the plural form - even though we pray “Write US into the Book of Life” - there’s nonetheless still an underlying individualistic message to Yom Kippur that each person is responsible for getting themselves written into the Book of Life. That individualized message comes from one of the Talmudic texts that I quoted in my sermons, that there are three books opened on the New Year – for righteous individuals, wicked individuals and for everyone else. Succot, on the other hand, is profoundly communal. We don’t build a Succah for ourselves, but for the Ushpizin, guests, whom we welcome into our Succah. Although it is unadvisable to have real-life Ushpizin during a pandemic, the idea nonetheless remains that Succot is a communal festival. We build a Succah on the Temple grounds and come to decorate it or visit it during the week. We wave the lulav in differing directions, acknowledging not just that God is all around us but also that others in our community, and other Jewish communities, are all around, too. The Succah has at least one open wall because it is not a place to lock ourselves away, but is open to visitors. When we sit in the Succah, we sit not just under the same roof as others in our community, but under the same sky as everyone other human being. So, we all look up to pray for rain at the end of Succot just as every other human being looks up to pray for rain.
From Elul to Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur we’ve gone on an important journey of the self within the context of community, we’ve recognized our own individual fragility and used that understanding to improve ourselves. Now, as we prepare for Succot, we focus very strongly not just on the local community, but on the global community through the fact that we’re all connected through the need for rain. Our mass individualized actions have led to shifting rain patterns, leading to floods and drought around the world. Succot brings us down to earth, as it were, with a bump. It reminds us not just to think globally and act locally, but to act globally as well. It reminds us that we are all – all of humanity – dependent on the seasons and particularly on the rain. It reminds us that we cannot lock ourselves away in our homes and in our Temple buildings and ignore the world around us. It reminds us that when we pollute, we sin not just to God but to the rest of humanity, including future generations – in the words of Torah – including “those who are not here with us today.” It reminds us that if we have truly changed ourselves on Yom Kippur, then we have to change not just how we act towards others, but towards the earth.
This coming Succot, then, let us continue the transformation of ourselves and our community that we started during the High Holy Day season, so that we might connect further with the global community, and with the Earth itself. And let us say, Amen.
So, if that’s what Talmud says, we have to ask ourselves a question - if it is the case that the rainy season starts at the end of Succot, why does it so rarely rain around that time? Was the Talmud wrong? The answer, of course, is that Talmud is talking about weather patterns in Israel and Babylon, not in Santa Fe. Our rainy season here in Santa Fe is particularly July and August and precipitation decreases significantly after that. Ever since the summer of 2018, I inserted a special prayer for rain during July and August at the end of the T’fillah even though during those months we were using the summer prayer – morid hatal (thanking God for dew) – instead of the winter insertion Mashiv haruach umorid hagashem (thanking God for shifting the wind and making rain fall) in T’fillah. We only switch to the latter traditional insertion at the end of Succot. So, how could we add a prayer for rain while also not adding the traditional prayer for rain?
The answer to that question is, I believe, important for us as we move into the festival of Succot. As I mentioned back in 2018, Rav Joseph Soloveitchik, the famed modern-Orthodox Rabbi, addressed the issue of praying for rain in America. He said that in the United States there is no particular rainy season as in Israel and that America therefore always needs rain. He would therefore recite the prayer all year round, similar to the perspective from the Mishnah that I mentioned at the beginning, that asked, “Wouldn’t we always mention it?” Soloveitchik’s prayer focussed on the immediate needs of the person in prayer, depending on where they were situated. I can respect that. However, I believe that having a prayer for rain during the rainy season in Santa Fe and then another more traditional prayer for rain during the rainy season in Israel connects us across the world in important ways.
On a day when we once again learn that we are doing nowhere near enough to limit the impact of anthropogenic climate change – specifically, we learned today that instead of the absolutely necessary 45% decrease in carbon emissions by 2030, humanity is likely to increase its emissions by 16% in that time – thinking about global weather patterns seems particularly important. If nothing else, as weather patterns shift as a result of our inaction on curbing carbon emissions, reminding ourselves when the rainy season used to be might well become an important act of memory.
There’s a rawness to praying for rain that I think continues the fragility of our existence from Yom Kippur. Where on Yom Kippur, we acknowledged that we lived on a precipice between life and death, that we are not actually in control of our own lives but might be taken by fire, earthquake, plague, violence or any other terrible cause without warning, Succot continues that theme of fragility by reminding us that it’s not just seemingly random events that could change our lives permanently, but also the weather itself, which didn’t used to be random but now is becoming more random the more pollution we spew into the atmosphere. More than that, the difference between Yom Kippur and Succot is the difference between the individual and communal. Violence, fire, and so on are more likely to affect small groups of individuals rather than entire communities, where the lack of rain affects the entire community. Although our prayers on Yom Kippur are almost entirely in the plural form - even though we pray “Write US into the Book of Life” - there’s nonetheless still an underlying individualistic message to Yom Kippur that each person is responsible for getting themselves written into the Book of Life. That individualized message comes from one of the Talmudic texts that I quoted in my sermons, that there are three books opened on the New Year – for righteous individuals, wicked individuals and for everyone else. Succot, on the other hand, is profoundly communal. We don’t build a Succah for ourselves, but for the Ushpizin, guests, whom we welcome into our Succah. Although it is unadvisable to have real-life Ushpizin during a pandemic, the idea nonetheless remains that Succot is a communal festival. We build a Succah on the Temple grounds and come to decorate it or visit it during the week. We wave the lulav in differing directions, acknowledging not just that God is all around us but also that others in our community, and other Jewish communities, are all around, too. The Succah has at least one open wall because it is not a place to lock ourselves away, but is open to visitors. When we sit in the Succah, we sit not just under the same roof as others in our community, but under the same sky as everyone other human being. So, we all look up to pray for rain at the end of Succot just as every other human being looks up to pray for rain.
From Elul to Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur we’ve gone on an important journey of the self within the context of community, we’ve recognized our own individual fragility and used that understanding to improve ourselves. Now, as we prepare for Succot, we focus very strongly not just on the local community, but on the global community through the fact that we’re all connected through the need for rain. Our mass individualized actions have led to shifting rain patterns, leading to floods and drought around the world. Succot brings us down to earth, as it were, with a bump. It reminds us not just to think globally and act locally, but to act globally as well. It reminds us that we are all – all of humanity – dependent on the seasons and particularly on the rain. It reminds us that we cannot lock ourselves away in our homes and in our Temple buildings and ignore the world around us. It reminds us that when we pollute, we sin not just to God but to the rest of humanity, including future generations – in the words of Torah – including “those who are not here with us today.” It reminds us that if we have truly changed ourselves on Yom Kippur, then we have to change not just how we act towards others, but towards the earth.
This coming Succot, then, let us continue the transformation of ourselves and our community that we started during the High Holy Day season, so that we might connect further with the global community, and with the Earth itself. And let us say, Amen.