Seriously, ask most any kid attending a Jewish school what the
most enjoyable day of the year is and you will be surprised by the
answer. It won’t be Chanuka, although everyone loves presents, and
it won’t be Passover, although everyone loves family gatherings
(sorry, my Dad made me say that); it won’t even be Purim, although
everyone loves dressing up in costumes and drinking too much wine.
The response would be Simchat (“Simchas” in European pronunciation)
Torah, a holiday being observed this year on Friday, October
5th.
This festive day was not specifically ordained in the Bible, nor
had it taken on its present character by the time the Talmud was
“sealed” as the final legal authority. It is something that evolved
from the diaspora experience, showing the genius of a peripatetic
nation to find occasions for joy.
Here is how it came about, and what it means. In pure Biblical
ritual, the holiday of Tabernacles begins on the fifteenth day of
the seventh lunar month. There is one major festival day, then six
low-key ones, all celebrating our temporal blessings, the harvest
and so forth. Then comes the holiday of the Eighth, Shmini Atzeret
in Hebrew, symbolizing that which is beyond time, the spiritual
realm above the seven-day world.
The problem in ancient times was determining the correct date.
Each lunar month can be twenty-nine or thirty days, depending on
the sighting of the new moon; the determination was made by the
court in Jerusalem. Thus, people were never sure just when the
seventh month started. Some effort was expended in sending
messengers out with the news, but people living outside Israel
rarely got word in time. Just to be sure, they had to make each
holiday twice, on consecutive days, a behavior we continue today in
commemoration. Which meant that after the Eighth, there was now an
extra day, the Eighth Take Two, lacking an individual
personality.
This was solved in a brilliant way. The custom outside Israel
was to divide the Bible into weekly readings, designed to finish
the five Books of Moses each year. (In Israel at that time, they
would finish once in three years; that custom ended when the
Crusades wiped out the last remnant of the old community. Today,
the Bible is finished annually everywhere around the globe.)
Instead of concluding it at the end of the actual year, it was
timed to end on this very holiday. After all, the Bible is
conceived as the ultimate truth-beyond-time.
Thus, the day took on a name of its own — Simchat Torah means
the joy of God’s teachings — sometime about 1,200 years ago. The
scrolls with the original Bible in Hebrew that are used for the
weekly readings (which cost $30,000 and up to have written on
parchment) become objects of adoration. Synagogue congregants take
turns holding them while they dance along with the crowd. Depending
on the enthusiasm and passion generated in each place, this can go
on for anywhere from an hour to four or five.
As a young Yeshiva student, lo these thirty years ago, I recall
my amazement at seeing otherwise staid Walter Mitty types suddenly
dancing their hearts out. Trust me, the first time you see a man
sweat up a $500 suit to the point of salt stains, it makes an
impression. The kids are always fawned on, called upon to read from
the Torah like adults, given tons of sweets, lifted to Daddy’s
shoulders on the dance floor and generally overindulged. Many
Jewish merchants publish colorful flags as a free premium with
holiday purchases, and the youngest children wave them on the
sidelines.
My own father has been a star of this culture for about sixty
years. People would walk long distances across Brooklyn to see his
antics. If the room was at a high noise level all through the
festivities, when my Dad gets the scroll the ruckus explodes into a
crescendo. He is still going strong at age 76, and I feel bad for
not having been there to see it in many years.
It occurs to me that the underlying message, to revisit the
Bible intelligently and alertly as an adult, is very meaningful for
all. We often tend to slip back into the shallow perceptions we
formed as youngsters. This is a serious book for serious people
with serious things to say about our lives and it deserves a
serious investment of time to give it serious treatment…which may
turn out to be quite enjoyable.
Jay D. Homnick, commentator and humorist, is a frequent
contributor to The American Spectator. He also writes
for Human Events.
