Let there be Peace – Shabbat 34 to 40

We are probably quite familiar with the three things the Mishna on 34a recommends that we say before Shabbat:

Have you given charity? (Issartem) Have you tended to the building of community (Eiravtem)?

Now let us light the Shabbat candles.

What we may not realise is that the Talmud expands upon this, emphasising a motif of peace which runs through it.

It starts by basing the origins of the practice in the following verse:

And you will know that your tent is one of peace, when you visit your home you will never sin.  (Job 5.24)

So the motivation of the practice is to ensure that we bring about peace, that we enact the prayer of ‘Sim Shalom’ within our own house.

Charity may begin at home; in the Talmudic worldview, peace certainly does.

We proceed with an inward movement, pausing to taking care of our external cares before our lens focusses back on the home, on the inner core, on the nuclear family.

We ensure we have given charity and paid our taxes, that our prescribed responsibility to broader society has been fulfilled.

We then focus on the closer network of community, and ensure that those bonds too have been sufficiently nurtured, that we are connected to those close to us, that our home is not an island in a sea of hostility.

Following that, we light the candles, transforming the home into a sacred space, placing within it an image of the soul, reminding ourselves that only through looking inwards might peace be achieved.

And we are told more than this, we are given not just the ritual tools with which to build peace, but also the language needed for this purpose, the manner with which it must be communicated:

Rabba bar Rav Huna said: Even though the Sages told us to mention these three things in our house before Shabbat, we must, nonetheless, be sure to say them pleasantly, with good grace, in order that they be accepted, that they are made welcome. 

Rav Ashi [living over 100 years later]said: I never heard this teaching of Rabba bar Rav Huna, but I behaved that way nonetheless, because it made sense to me. 

We must build peace, and we must do it peacefully, gently.

And this is not merely a pragmatic decision, it cuts to the core of where peace really begins.  It must first take root in the depths of our psyche, where its opposites – anxiety, unease, dischord – all too often reign.

There is no better way to calm these uneasy waters than an encounter with a person who radiates a genuine sense of deep and profound peace.  We all meet such people from time to time, and we are right to think that there is something miraculous about such encounters.  There is something  arresting about the way their deeply rooted calm,  an authentic expression of their being, without any trace of artifice, gradually seeps into our own psyche, easing and relaxing the tension in our soul.

Peace begins in the home, but to even get to that point, we must first work towards peace in our soul.

And I love the qualification in this teaching – Even though the Sages told us… – do not think that acting out of piety or rectitude absolves you from the need to embody peace, do not get hung up on your own righteousness, on your sense of superiority.  These attitudes, these moves towards some external validation of one’s truth, towards an objective justification of one’s being, are perhaps the enemies of peace.  They are the progenitors of a religion rooted in strife, in enmity, in difference, in demonising the other.

There are many senses here in which we are being guided inwards, in which only the long and difficult journey to our centre will yield the genuinely important result.

But my mind is not only on the inner tonight.

I am profoundly saddened by what is happening in Israel right now, by the loss of lives on both sides, by the way in which people are being forced to flee their homes in terror, the gentle rhythms of domestic life shattered by hatred and aggression.

We are not living in times of peace.

I am no military strategist, and I do not claim much expertise in political matters either, but I cannot stand by silently whilst this madness goes on.

We must return peace to the top of the political agenda, on both sides, for it is craziness to believe that either side can ever live in happiness without it.

We must concede that the Bible speaks sometimes in the violent language of military conquest, and we must accept some responsibility for maintaining this discourse, for allowing it to infect the thinking and discussion of our politics.

But we must move beyond it, we must see that the ultimate religious value is peace, that it is the enduring power for change in the world, the force that creates life, the spirit that breeds hope.

We must believe in peace and we must find leaders who know how to speak the language of peace, who do not feel duty bound to sound more aggressive than their opponents, who feel sure that they will be elected because they have exhibited greater toughness and bravado.

Again, these dispositions have their place, but I fear that our leaders are in thrall to them, seduced by their appeal, lost in their promise of power, both personal and political.  If peace has lost its grip on them, if they have not made space for it in their hearts, then we are in a truly desperate position.

I don’t know how the spirit of peace can be transmitted to every minor faction who might get their hands onto some rockets, I haven’t got a fully worked out implementation plan.  But I do know that if we don’t grasp how central peace is as a value, if we do not return it to the centre of our discourse and our personalities, then it will never catch on, its force will never be felt.

The killing cannot go on,  we need to re-kindle the flame of peace.

And let us not be complacent about this, let us all as individuals question quite how much work we are doing to ensure that we are a source of peace, that we have connected with peace in our souls and that we are able to transmit it to others.

Peace is our own problem, not one more way in which we are superior to our partners in conflict.

And let us not confuse peace with passivity; peace is strong, it is powerful, and the person who finds it can stand courageously in the face of a violence which will always eventually exhaust itself.

Ghandi springs to mind as an example of this, of the way that peace might be part of the battle against violence, a war against war:

 If we are to teach real peace in this world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children.

But it doesn’t just begin with the children, he too saw that it begins with ourselves, with the wars that are raging inside of us:

When you find peace within yourself, you become the kind of person who can live at peace with others.

How wonderful that the Talmud tried to teach us this two thousand years ago; how tragic that we seem to have so frequently forgotten it.

May this Shabbat be marked by the spirit of peace, may we welcome it wholeheartedly into our psyches and into our homes.  And may it spread from there to the rest of our world, bringing the senseless killing everywhere to an abrupt and lasting end.

May we meditate on the words of the prophet Isaiah, and be pained that all these years later we have yet to bring about his vision:

Nation will not lift up sword against nation, And never again will they learn war.

For you shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace.

Patience, Compassion and Love Shabbat 28 – 33

The pages are so rich at the moment, and I just don’t have the time to do them all justice.  Quite frankly, it’s frustrating as hell.  I’m going to try to talk briefly about each daf, with just a gesture towards of some of what’s going on there.

Shabbat 28

The Mishna (end of 27b) teaches that:

You may not light the Shabbat lamp with anything that comes  from a tree,  except for flax; and whatever comes forth from a tree cannot be defiled with the uncleanness of tents,  except flax.

I think the thematic linkage here between Shabbat and Death – as embodied by the ‘uncleanness of tents’ – is significant and profound.  Shabbat is connected to mortality, it is rooted in our limits.

It commemorates the completion of creation, and the end of the God’s intimate involvement in that.  From then on, he plays a smaller role, a less obvious role.

I wrote a little something on this a few years ago:

Let it remind you of the tragedy inherent in creation, that there is no longer a Godly hand guiding it but that we alone are responsible for its development and wellbeing.  Do not be overwhelmed by this, but do not shirk from the magnitude of the task.  The world will change and unfold, we can try to influence this or we can hide from it and prepare ourselves for the worst.  To reject this pessimism is the core of all faith.

To rest is to accept that we have limits.  This is not always an easy thing to admit, perhaps because it reminds us that we must die, that we are mortal.

And yet our mortality, the transient uniqueness of it all, is what allows for meaning in life, for precious and delectable moments.  We must try to make peace with our mortality, to see it as framing our life, as a reminder that life is a precious and fragile gift.

Shabbat 29

Davar she’aino mitkaven – If an action performed on Shabbat results in a unintended prohibited action, it is permitted.  The only limiting factor is that the prohibited action must not be guaranteed to come about as a result of the action.

The example given is of dragging a small bench along a muddy surface – any ‘digging’ or ‘ploughing’ that might come about is neither desired nor guaranteed.

Indeed, doing ‘work’ on Shabbat, creating a proper violation, requires each of the following conditions to be fulfilled:

(1) You are aware that you are doing the action

(2) You intend for the action to take place

(3) You are doing the action because you want the logical result to follow

(4) The action is constructive, not destructive

(5) The action has a permanent, rather than a temporary, effect

(6) You do the action in the normal way it is done

(7) Your efforts directly cause the action to take place

(8) You do the action using only those people necessary

(For more detail and further examples, have a look at the overview by Alan Goldman, from whom I’ve borrowed this listing.)

This is all important to know for its own sake, but it’s also important for an appreciation of how difficult it is to actually break Shabbat.

This is nice philosophically, Shabbat is a strong container, a rigid structure, we don’t need to be too fragile with her, she can hold us.

The practical ramifications are significant too – people seem to sometimes dream up ways in which a given action might be breaking Shabbat, and can thus generate a significant amount of anxiety.  The list seems to be telling us that it’s not that easy, that you needn’t worry about unintended actions, that keeping Shabbat should not become a new form of hysteria.

Shabbat is about peace, its observance should not makes us paranoid and fearful.

Shabbat 30

There is a crazy but beautiful piece of Aggadic Midrash here, which simply must be read, ideally with the Hebrew, to be appreciated.  The upshot, which has much more impact if you’ve read the whole thing (it utterly defies summarizing), is the following:

A lamp is called ‘ner’ and a person’s soul is also called ‘ner’; it is preferable to extinguish the ‘ner’ of flesh and blood [i.e. a candle] to the ‘ner’ of the Holy One Blessed be He [the life of a human being].

We learn from here that you may extinguish a light or carry out other prohibited actions to save a life on Shabbat.

In Yoma 85b we have the more literal reasoning of ‘va’chay bahem’ – ‘you should live by them’ – but believe me, it’s not a patch on this piece of Aggada, and I’m much the happier to have encountered this poetic piece of reasoning.

We also have the attempts to supress Mishlei (Proverbs) and Kohelet (Ecclesiastes), and some fascinating expositions to prevent that.

Shabbat 31

Hillel and Shammai.  I’m glad we already discussed this a little, it would be too upsetting to not discuss the significance of their differences at length.

And, having established Hillel as deeply humanitarian, as an embodiment of a Torah of Love, we can here spend a moment on his proto-Wittgensteinian insights into the limits of textual authority.

He was confronted with potential convert who only wished to learn the written Torah, not the oral Torah.  His response was as follows:

On the first day he taught him the alef bet [Hebrew alphabet].  On the second day he changed the letters and taught him the alef bet differently.

‘But yesterday you didn’t teach me this way!’ protested the convert.

‘And weren’t you then completely reliant on me, as you are now?  Rely on me regarding the Oral Law too, without it you are nowhere’.

A text has no meaning without a tradition of interpretation, without a responsible reader, without a subject sufficiently attuned to its spirit.

Hillel is showing, with a very 20th century proof, that every text requires a teacher, that every tradition requires mediation.

It seems to be utterly apt that we move straight from here to:

That which is hateful to you do not do to another; that is the entire Torah, the rest is interpretation.

There is text, there is tradition, and there is the guiding spirit.  We need all three of these, without any one of them we are lost, we are betraying what is Divine in the Torah.

Hillel embodied this, he was a man of patience, of peace.  The stories suggest he was virtually implacable.

Shammai by contrast was hot tempered, ill at ease in the world, never far from anger.

We learn from Hillel, we learn how to be, how to live.  We simply cannot learn these things from Shammai, such a character has not yet found its own way in the world, has not yet found a restful dwelling.

Shabbat 32

We have here the appalling and horrendous Mishna suggesting that women die in childbirth due to lapses in various observances.

One must ruefully note that in the continuation of the text men and children also have their moments of reckoning, that it is not just women who are the recipients of Divine Retribution.

I can only suggest that these explanations are offered in a spirit of love and compassion, in an attempt to bring meaning to forms of death that were much more common at that point in time than we could nowadays bear to imagine.

We’ve touched on this in the past, how some form of explanation, however gruesome, might be better than the abject nihilism which might be the alternative.

And ‘better’ does not mean ‘more true’, ‘more honest’, and certainly not ‘more beautiful’.  But the mind is a funny thing, and the idea that there might be some grain of meaning, hope or love behind things may hold, for some people, more appeal than the alternative.

Let us not presume to know until we have been in that place.

Let us put to rest our philosophical pretensions and righteousness and proceed with cautious humility before the horrors with which real people live.

We are warned here that one who speaks with vulgarity, without consideration, with flippancy has hell deepened for them, for:

The mouth that speaks perversity is a deep pit.

Thoughtlessness comes from emptiness, from a person living with a deep inner void, lacking a genuine connection to life.

It may take some faith, but it feels better to believe that these pages are not coming from such a place.

Shabbat 33

And so to Rav Shimon bar Yochai, a tale of zeal and fury.

(Again, read it; I can’t possibly do it justice here.)

On hearing the Romans being praised for building markets, he responds:

‘They only established marketplaces so that they could put prostitutes in them’.

Thinking psychoanalytically, this is a powerful statement.  Prostitutes are clearly quite close to the surface of his mind, he perhaps finds them to be an agonising and tormenting source of temptation.  He may not even be conscious of this, and it would be much easier to allay this threat to the personality by projecting it onto the Romans.  His susceptibility is vanquished, all perversion lies with the Romans, they are the source of corruption.

Unsurprisingly, the Romans didn’t take kindly to this remark, and were after him.

He fled, famously, to the cave with a carob plant outside where he hid for twelve years, learning Torah with his son.

When they came out, believing the threat to have abated, their furious zeal threatened to destroy the world – everything they looked at was consumed by the fire of their anger.

Rebuked by a heavenly voice, they returned to their cave, where they studied for another twelve months.

On leaving this time, his son still has a destructive streak, but Rav Shimon has mellowed somewhat, and is able to heal what the son damages.

We don’t know what changed them, but we are given a symbol of what helped cement the transformation.

Watching an old man gathering myrtle branches in honour of Shabbat, they asked him why he needed two bundles, why one would not suffice.  On hearing his explanation – one for Zachor (rememberance), one for Shamor (honouring) – Rav Shimon said the following:

‘You see, my son, how beloved the mitzvot are to Israel.’

With this their minds found peace.

After years and years of rage, of an anger he was perhaps not even aware of, of a righteousness driven by fury, by discomfort, by a fear of his own demons, he finally learnt to love.

He saw that the Torah is founded upon love, that there is something miraculous and Divine in the way it is observed with love.

Love was what he had struggled to see, and once his eyes beheld it, their capacity for destruction diminished.

It’s easy to talk tritely about these subjects, and yet, I do believe, with what can only be called faith, that we are only ever able to grasp a small fraction of the power of love, of the difference it makes in the heart of man.

We think we know ourselves, yet it is sometimes only after years of living with the darkness of anger and hatred that we realise how little love was in our heart; love for the world, love for the other, love for our self.

May the Divine wisdom and light help pierce the darkness, may the Divine Love enlighten our eyes and enable us to ‘live by them’.

Let us be like Hillel, implacably patient and boundlessly compassionate, and in that way let us live up to our calling as the lamp of the Divine, as something worthy of protection and grace.