We spoke recently about gratitude, about how it is at the core of our concern with berakhot, blessings, how it plays a role in the transition between the physical and the spiritual, how it bridges the emotional and the intellectual.
Gratitude is quite profound, it requires perhaps a certain level of seriousness, of mindfulness.
It’s younger, rambunctious cousin, appreciation, is a different beast altogether, albeit one with which it is intimately connected.
Appreciation is perhaps more of a spontaneous aesthetic phenomenon, an instinctive response of the soul. Gratitude is more of a project, an attitude which we work hard to attain, which requires a curiously balanced blend of intellectual work and emotional grace.
We might imagine that gratitude is the kind of thing that the halakha would aim to inculcate, whereas appreciation might be something it aims to tame, to bring under control, to temper.
In fact, it is not so simple, and it seems that there are voices within the Talmud who believe that appreciation should be cultivated and encouraged, that there is something pure and holy in the energy and inspiration that we discover when presented with something delicious, something which arrests us with its beauty.
We see this argument first on 40b:
One who saw bread and said: “How pleasant is this bread, blessed is the Omnipresent Who created it”, fulfilled his obligation to recite a blessing. One who saw a date and said: “How pleasant is this date, blessed is the Omnipresent Who created it”, fulfilled his obligation. This is the statement of Rabbi Meir.
Rabbi Yosei says: One who deviates from the formula coined by the Sages in blessings, did not fulfil his obligation.
For Rabbi Meir, the idea that one could be so moved that he spontaneously erupts into blessing and praise, that he is genuinely moved to appreciate creation and its Author, this is commendable and to be encouraged.
Rabbi Yosei is not so sure, for him there might some danger in encouraging this aestheticism, in chancing the fate of the halakha to the whims of one’s inspired responses. He does not see the opportunity in this moment, he does not see that this natural excitement, this pure emotion which cannot be feigned, can raise the individual to untold heights, can be an opening in their otherwise hard and very closed armour. He does not see that it holds the promise of a genuine connection, of a profound educational insight, wherein a person might come to understand that praise is something we do because we need to, because it is one of our most basic instincts.
Rabbi Yosei is scared of our subjectivity, for him Halakhic Man represents an ideal of controlled and disciplined objectivity, the chance fluctuations of the spirit are not to be trusted.
I’m pleased to report that the Rambam agrees with Rabbi Meir, and that an individualistic expression of praise, with certain provisions, ‘fulfils the obligation’ of the berakha. Even the codifier and logical philosopher par excellence allows for this poetic inspiration, for the profoundly inimitable sentiments of appreciation.
The dispute continues in the next Mishna:
If there were many types of food before him, over which food should he recite a blessing first?
Rabbi Yehuda says: If there is one of the seven species for which Eretz Yisrael was praised among them, he recites the first blessing over it.
And the Rabbis say: He recites a blessing over whichever of them he wants.
For Rabbi Yehuda berakhot have a purpose, and a rigid framework exists to ensure that goal is met. We look to a text to establish the rubric, for we need to tame and normalise the experience. Holiness is ordered, externally mandated.
For the Rabbis, Rabbi Yehuda has lost sight of something. How can we educate in the ways of gratitude, how can we foster appreciation for the marvels of creation if we begin by ignoring a person’s natural inclination?
No, this inclination is precious, we must encourage and develop it, and we must help the person to deepen the experience with the help of a berakha. The Rabbis believe in what Schiller called ‘The Aesthetic Education of Man’.
In the Gemara, this point is pushed even further. The Mishna only considered the case where all the options had the same berakha appropriate to them, and we were choosing which food to make that berakha on. In the Gemara, Rabbi Yirmeya suggests that even when there are different berakhot, they would prioritise which berakha to say based on personal choice.
This may not sound revolutionary, but the alternative is that there is actually quite a rigid hierarchy of berakhot which we must stick to, and that is the rule that we generally follow. So Rabbi Yirmeya’s opinion is genuinely quite bold, and again suggests that he saw the wisdom in building the structure of berakhot on the basis of an individual’s idiosyncratic preference, rather than in trying to fight it.
Finally, we come to the wine.
We have the rule that a berakha over bread at the start of a meal covers everything else, that one need not make further berakhot. There are two exceptions. Firstly in the case where someone unexpectedly brought some food which had nothing to do with the meal, but which, perhaps, they had just discovered and felt needed to be appreciated. In that case, a fresh berakha of appreciation is merited.
The second case is wine. The Gemara asks why this should be, and gives the following answer:
Wine is different, for it stimulates a blessing on its own.
Wine inspires us, and in that inspiration, we are moved to make a berakha.
I’m not going to put this better than the romantic poet John Keats, so I’ll let him do the talking at this point, I’ll let his berakha on wine speak for us all:
For really ‘t is so fine-it fills the mouth one’s mouth with a gushing freshness-then goes down cool and feverless-then you do not feel it quarrelling with your liver-no it is rather a Peace maker and lies as quiet as it did in the grape-then it is as fragrant as the Queen Bee; and the more ethereal Part of it mounts into the brain, not assaulting the cerebral apartments like a bully in a bad house looking for his trul and hurrying from door to door bouncing against the waistcoat; but rather walks like Aladin about his own enchanted palace so gently that you do not feel his step-Other wines of a heavy and spirituous nature transform a Man to a Silenus; this makes him a Hermes-and gives a Woman the soul and imortality of Ariadne…
We do not stand in the way of the aesthetic currents in man, we engage with them, we ride their waves and we try to ensure that they are not squandered, but are used for the refinement and elevation of the personality.
We may be aiming for gratitude, but we cannot get there without genuine appreciation, and wherever we stumble upon this natural treasure we are obliged to let it sing its own song, to express itself through its own poetry.