How to Run a Traditional Jewish Household

by Blu Greenberg

  Doing it this way has solved not only the traffic-flow problem, but the raccoon problem as well. To wit, this incident of ten years ago: As is always done in the advance setting of a holiday table, the two challot were placed on the silver challah plate, were then covered and were placed on the table. Coming out to the sukkah awhile later, I noticed the challot were gone. Immediately, I lit into whoever had set the table with, “Why didn’t you …” “But I did,” said the innocent child. “No, you couldn’t have. They’re not here now.” “But I did,” cried the innocent thing. And then I noticed that the challah cover was on the ground outside the sukkah, and off in the distance I suddenly caught sight of the bushy body with two handlike paws, finishing off the last bit of challah. In the middle of the yard, midway between us, was the second challah he had foraged and dropped en route. He watched me for a moment, and then, somehow knowing I would not race him for his rabid challah, he plodded over to the center of the lawn, picked up his second loaf, turned and gave me another good long look, and then plodded back to his ledge. For that amount of challah, he could have made a leyshev ba’sukkah.

  The year after, we made sure not to set the challot out until we were ready to go into the sukkah for Kiddush. But during the year, the raccoon had also gotten smarter and more brazen. He, or his brother, waited until we filed back into the house after Kiddush to wash our hands; he then scurried in and grabbed off our challot—both loaves again. This time, however, he worked fast, and not deftly, messing up our table and spilling the wine. It was on that day that we decided to adopt the wash-Kiddush-hamotzi routine. Thus, although some would be loath to admit the impact of sociology on Sinai, we see that even raccoons can affect halachic procedures.

  In instances where the sukkah is a distance from the house, or where the hosts do not want guests in their kitchen, it is a simple matter to set up beforehand pitcher, glass, basin, paper towels, wastebasket so that people can wash their hands right outside the sukkah entrance.

  For zemirot at a festival meal, there is a wide range of songs from which to choose. There are many beautiful parts to the Sukkot liturgy and one of the most special is the Hallel, the hymns of praise that we recite each day of the festivals. Another source of zemirot are those Biblical verses related to the festivals themselves, such as “Ve’samachta be’chagecha” (DEUT. 16:14–15)—“And you shall rejoice in your festivals … and you shall be only happy.”

  It is a mitzvah to eat in the sukkah all during the holiday, but the mitzvah carries most weight the first night. Apartment dwellers, or people who don’t have their own sukkah, make sure to secure an invitation somewhere, or they eat in the shul sukkah, or at least make Kiddush there so as to be able to recite the blessing leyshev ba’sukkah. Homeowners with sukkot go out of their way to invite people who have no sukkah.

  The laws of dwelling in the sukkah are fairly lenient. In case of inclement weather or poor health, or rain, one is excused from eating in the sukkah. (We are told to rejoice in the sukkah and not to suffer.) On the first night, however, we make a maximum effort to eat in the sukkah if it is at all possible.

  If it rains on the first night, the Rabbis said one should wait until midnight to see if the rain passes. However, later generations of authorities realized this would be a disruption of the joy of the holiday, for oneself and one’s family, so the custom arose to wait an hour in case of rain. The Rabbis took it one step further: if one’s guests are poor people, the waiting period is waived altogether.

  In event the rain does not stop, we go out to the sukkah to recite Kiddush, leyshev ba’sukkah, Shehecheyanu, and hamotzi. We then continue our meal indoors.

  Blessing the Lulav

  Each morning of the holiday, except Shabbat, we take up the lulav and etrog to recite the blessing. Orienting ourselves toward the east—and Jerusalem—we hold the lulav in our right hand, spine facing us, hadas to the right and aravah to the left. In our left hand, we hold the etrog, pitom facing down. Holding our hands together, with lulav and etrog touching each other, we recite the blessing:

  Baruch ata Adonai Elohainu melech ha’olam asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al netilat lulav.

  Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, Who has commanded us on the taking up of the lulav.

  On the first day of Sukkot, we add the Shehecheyanu. Then we turn the etrog so that the pitom is up. Still holding lulav and etrog together, we point the lulav in six directions: front (east), right, back (over our shoulder), left, up and down, symbolizing God’s reign over the four corners of the universe and the dominions of heaven and earth. Each time we point to another direction, we give the lulav a little shake.

  The blessing over lulav is recited each morning immediately before Hallel. Those who will not have a lulav and etrog with them in shul, as is the case for most women and children, will recite the blessing at home in the morning.

  The lulav and etrog are used ritually during other parts of the Shacharit service. They are held in hand all through the chanting of Hallel. At certain key parts of Hallel, we wave the lulav and etrog in different directions. It’s a bit difficult to hold the lulav in the right hand and etrog in the left and hold a siddur simultaneously. Thus, the custom is to hold the lulav and etrog in separate hands only for the waving parts, but to hold them together in one hand and a siddur in the other for all the rest of Hallel.

  HOSHANOT

  Awhile later, we take up the lulav and etrog again as part of another ceremony, this time a processional. After Mussaf, the chazzan carries a Torah scroll in his arms and walks slowly along the outer aisles of the shul, singing responsively the Hoshanah prayer (Help Us). As he passes each row, those who have a lulav and etrog step out into the aisle and follow the procession. In a traditional synagogue, only males join the processional. Many men hold the lulav and etrog in their hands and a young child on their arms. Hoshanot (as the prayer and processional are called) must surely be mysterious, strange, exciting to these little ones who peek out from under their father’s tallit. And for those who watch them. I remember some fifteen years ago, in our shul, when there were perhaps fifty men who possessed lulav and etrog. Now there are three hundred or so, slow-moving, chanting, lulav-toting, tallit-covered figures, all friends and neighbors. These Hoshanot are among the most memorable parts of the Sukkot liturgy.

  THE SECOND DAY

  On the second day of Sukkot, all these procedures are repeated with but two slight variations: at the evening Kiddush, the Shehecheyanu is recited before the leyshev ba’sukkah and not after as on the first night; and the haftorah reading differs from that of the first day.

  However, there is another ritual associated with this day that is worth mentioning. In ancient times, there was a joyous water-drawing ceremony, the Simchat Bet Hashoeva. It was performed on the second day of Sukkot which was—and is—the first day of Chol Hamoed in the land of Israel. Water was drawn from a major well in the environs of Jerusalem, carried to the Temple, and splashed over the altar as an offering. Afterward, all the menorot (candelabra) of Jerusalem were lit, and the entire city was bathed in light. A torchlight parade was accompanied by the rich sounds of cymbals and horns. The Rabbis entertained, did acrobatic feats, and performed balancing acts, the most daring of which was the juggling of flaming torches.*

  At night, after the second day is over, Havdalah is recited. But since only the first two sacred days are concluded, and not the holiday itself, we omit the blessing over spices, and we end the final blessing with, “Hamavdil beyn kodesh le kodesh,” “He Who distinguishes between holy and holy,” that is, between different levels of holiness.

  WOMEN AND THE SUKKAH

  Historically, women were not obligated to eat in the sukkah. Increasingly, however, Orthodox women take every meal in the sukkah as do their male counterparts—and not just on the sacred days. A few years ago, during the intermediate days of Sukkot, Goody and I happened to be shopping in Manhattan’s Lower East Side. It was lunchtime, and we were very hungry. So
we asked a storekeeper, a young man wearing a yarmulke, if he knew where there was a shul sukkah nearby, to eat our sandwiches. He thought it was quite amusing, laughed, and said, “You’re ladies. What do you need it for?” He wasn’t sure how to get to the shul, so he called out to his partner, “Hymie, these women want to eat in a sukkah. How do they get there?” His partner, of the same persuasion but not of the same mind, came forward and said, “For you two? How wonderful!” and proceeded to give us directions.

  THE INTERMEDIATE DAYS

  Days three, four, five, and six are called Chol Hamoed, literally, “the weekdays of the festival.” These intermediate days have a measure of sacredness to them. In Talmudic times, it would appear that most people refrained from most kinds of work, and the days were celebrated much like the holy days of the festival. Strictly speaking, the Rabbis ruled that work may be done, but only work that cannot be postponed, such as work that will be irretrievably lost or spoiled if not done at this time. Over the centuries, however, and especially in modern times, it was too difficult to take the whole week off, so the definition of work that could not be postponed was increasingly broadened. Most people go to work and restrict it only in a token way.

  The rules for work apply equally to tasks done in the home. Here, too, the general rule is: if it can wait, it waits. Laundry, cleaning, and sewing that are not urgently needed are set aside, as are tasks of construction and repair.

  Children of yeshiva day schools have been known to resort to a plea of “It’s Chol Hamoed!” in resisting any and all homework assignments. But Jewish teachers are not fools either. One of the fine points of Jewish law is that if you must do certain kinds of weekaday work, such as writing, do it in a slightly different manner. For example, start the first line (of, say, a homework assignment) at a slant.

  The daily liturgy of the intermediate days is a hybrid. Shacharit consists of the regular weekday liturgy with some relevant insertions, plus Hallel, a brief Torah reading, and the special Mussaf for the festivals. Since most people do work on Chol Hamoed, the services start a half hour earlier than usual for a working day, in order to end the same hour so that people can get to work on time.

  There is a halachic debate regarding tefillin on Chol Hamoed. Tefillin are not worn on Shabbat or Yom Tov. If Chol Hamoed is observed as Yom Tov, then one should not wear tefillin. On the other hand, if people go to work, they should don tefillin. Some Jews do wear tefillin on Chol Hamoed, but many Chasidim don’t even though they might go to work. And those who put on tefillin for Shacharit remove them before Hallel, so as to signify that it is, after all, one of the festival days.

  The blessing over lulav and etrog is recited daily, including the waving ritual. All the meals are taken in the sukkah, to remind us that these days are still part of the joyful holiday.

  Whatever day of Sukkot falls on Shabbat, whether sacred day or Chol Hamoed, there is no taking up of the lulav and etrog. There is a special reading on Shabbat of Sukkot—the Book of Ecclesiastes, the most enigmatic, ambiguous, self-contradictory book of the Bible, but every sentence has a ring of truth. It is like life itself: enigmatic, ambiguous, self-contradictory...

  HOSHANAH RABBAH

  Hoshanah Rabbah, the great day of hosannah, starts the eve of the seventh day. Still part of Chol Hamoed, it has special features as we move toward the last of the sacred days of Sukkot. Many traditional Jews—mostly men but some women, too—stay up past midnight or all night, reciting Psalms, or learning Torah. Tradition tells us that on Hoshanah Rabbah the heavenly court places the final seal on the judgment that was handed down on Yom Kippur. There are hardy, devout souls who want to be on duty to mark the final judgment.

  Generally speaking, because Hoshanah Rabbah is a regular workday, a day of heavy cooking and preparation for the last two festival days, because services begin very early, and because women are not obligated to be there … women seldom go to Hoshanah Rabbah morning services. But they miss something....

  In light of the tradition that judgment is sealed this day, the Hoshanah Rabbah morning liturgy symbolically reenacts some Yom Kippur themes. That morning, the ark and bimah table are covered with white as on Yom Kippur. The rabbi and chazzan wear white kittels as on Yom Kippur. After the Mussaf, the Ho-shanot processional starts. Instead of one Torah being carried around the congregation, seven scrolls are taken around together. Each one is used to head a different procession. The marchers encircle the shul seven times. Every man in the shul is out in the aisles with his lulav and etrog. In unison, they sing the various chants whose central theme is Hosannah, Help Us.

  The judgment of God is not only on human beings: it is also a judgment on nature. Who will live and who will die in nature depends to a great extent on how much water will be granted. On Hoshanah Rabbah, Jews pray for water. To make the message more urgently felt, they reenact an ancient Temple ceremony. With a few dried willow branches in their hands (supplied by the shamash of the synagogue), each man beats the willows against the ground three times until the leaves fall off. It is a reminder, as it were, to God, of what happens to us without sufficient water. We need water to live. Because of the association with Yom Kippur and forgiveness, folklore has it that in beating off the leaves, one is shedding the sins of the past year that were forgiven on Yom Kippur. Would that it were that easy to shake off sins....

  Hoshanah Rabbah morning is the last time we will take up our lulav for the year. Although we have finished with it, out of respect for its sacred use we will not throw it away in the garbage. We set it aside, until after Simchat Torah, to dispose of properly. We leave it on the ground outside, to let it decompose naturally; some people weave it into strawlike sukkah decorations for next year; others save a few palm ribs to burn with the chametz (leavened products) before next Passover. This is a way of linking one Biblical festival to another.

  On Hoshanah Rabbah afternoon, our family collects etrogim from our friends. We keep one or two, to pomander for besamim (see p. 88), and all the rest we give to my mother. She doesn’t quite have a bathtub still, but somehow she manages to produce enough of Sylvia’s Three Hundred Proof Etrog Liquor to last the family all the year through.

  Lunch on Hoshanah Rabbah is the last time we recite the leyshev ba’sukkah when eating in the sukkah. When evening falls, a new holiday has begun, with its own candlelighting and Kiddush, the holiday of Shemini Atzeret, the Eighth Day of Solemn Assembly.

  Shemini Atzeret

  Its most unique feature is the prayer for rain—Tefilat Geshem.

  It’s odd, the places one can have a religious “experience.” I would define a religious experience as a heightened awareness of, and sensitivity to, people, nature, time, community, past, future, and God—singly or in any combination. For most of us, these come few and far between, but they carry us far beyond the immediate moment.

  In 1974, the year after the Yom Kippur War, our family spent a year in Israel. The children adjusted quite well. Deborah, who was very shy, marched off to school the first day without a backward glance. But J.J., then nine, wanted me to stay in school with him. Just for today, then just for tomorrow, and then just for the day after. After two weeks, I was so much a permanent fixture that the students thought I was the school secretary and the teachers thought I was the new school guard. But the fourth-grade teacher and principal were most understanding. One day, my twelfth day there—it turned out to be my last, since J.J. released me that evening—I was sitting at the back of the room reading my book when suddenly something caught my attention and riveted me for a moment: a few patter drops of rain against the window, and in an instant all the children spontaneously clapped their hands. It was as if they were applauding the heavens, applauding the wondrous ways of God and of nature, feeling joy at the first rain of the season.

  Now I have seen children clap over snow. Snow is fun. Snow is snowballs, sleds, and maybe even the closing of school. But rain? Rain is for the earth and the community, things that don’t generally engage nine-year-olds. How
did they know, these little Israeli children? Did their mothers and fathers tell them? Their teachers? Does it come instinctively of being born in the land of our ancestors? Does it come from two thousand years of Jews saying Tefilat Geshem each year in every corner of the world? Do the children of soybean farmers in Iowa clap when it rains on their school windows? I wanted to know all of these things.

  Sixty seconds later I went back to my book, but in those sixty seconds my perception of God and rain and nature and the ancient Israelites had been transformed. I now had insight into something I didn’t quite grasp before. Every year since then as I stand for the Geshem prayer, my thoughts inevitably wander back to that classroom, those young children, my teachers.... And I know now why it was that J.J. needed me in school for twelve days.

  Why do Jews ask for rain on Shemini Atzeret and not a few days earlier, when we give thanks for the harvest? Or on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur when we pray for life? Two reasons: one, the Jews are realists. By observing nature, they noticed the rains simply didn’t start two weeks earlier. Why pray for something that just won’t happen? Two, the Jews are dreamers; or perhaps in this, too, they are realists? The Rabbis in the Talmud debate whether the prayer for rain should be recited on the first day of Sukkot or the last. It was decided the last day. If the rains would come too soon, they would spoil the holiday of Sukkot by driving us out of the sukkah. Thus, people could not pray for rain with a full heart early in the holiday.

  What actually is the Tefilat Geshem? It is an ancient prayer asking for the blessings of rain. This brief prayer is inserted into the repetition of the Mussaf. To it have been added a series of piyutim, medieval religious poems which review all the events in our history that are connected to the blessings of rain.

  From this day on, until the first day of Pesach, after which we want no more rain, we will add to our daily Shmoneh Esreh the phrase: “[God] Who brings the winds and causes the rain to fall.” Interestingly, the rain phrase is inserted as a preface to the resurrection blessing: “Blessed are You, God, Who restores life to the dead.” Rain is compared to resurrection because it, too, brings forth from the ground life which has been barren or “dead” since the last harvest. The Rabbis suggest that rain is as miraculous as resurrection.