By Martin Jaffee, JTNews Correspondent
Do you want to know if you’re “religious?” Then permit me to pose a riddle: when does the Jewish summer end?
Of course, you know better than to propose “the autumnal equinox!” About 10 percent of the kids in Seattle’s Jewish day schools would confidently – and, from a strictly technical perspective, correctly – point to the musaf prayer of Shemini Atzeret (when we petition the Creator for the autumn and winter rains). Of course, there may be a few sophisticates down at the Kollel who’ll point to the obscure Gregorian date of the evening of Dec. 4 – Drop them a call. They’ll explain. Or see your local halachic provider.
But I’m here to argue that a much better case can be made for the 10th of Av – the day after the fast that commemorates the greatest calamities in Jewish history.
The truly “religious” among us know in our bones that summer is as good as over on the 10th of Av – even if it’s late July and the mercury is pushing 95 degrees. Why? Because that’s when we first begin to schvitz about the impending avodah (labor) of the Days of Awe. It inaugurates a stretch of weeks that leads inevitably from Shabbat Nahamu, the first of the seven Sabbaths of Consolation, to the daily shofar blasts of the penitential month of Elul and, from there, to Tishrei’s 10 days of repentence, and on to Simchat Torah. On the 10th of Av, something clicks in our heads and the worrying begins.
But who has ever wondered on that day: “How can I possibly stand before the Holy One before I mend my fences with my neighbors?” Maybe we’ll get to that one sometime before the first Al Chet!
No, most of the time a very different range of questions begins to boil in our brains.: “This year, can we invite to our yontif meals people we actually like?” “Are there any vegetarians we’ll find out about at the last minute?” “Will the sukkah make it through another windstorm?”
Same thing happens when Tu B’Shevat falls in the dead of a February blizzard. As soon as the raisins and figs are cleared away, the religiously alert among us begin to feel that rolling wave of anxiety about the real seder.
“Malki!! Let’s work down the 10-pound bag of flour in the cupboard in time for Pesach! We’ve only got seven weeks!”
For Jews of a less traditional stripe, Jewish autumn begins much later than it does for us “religious” types. It begins about two hours after work on the eve of Rosh Hashanah – early September or late, it makes no difference – when one finally decides, after a low-carb dinner, that the fall TV season is pretty dismal and it might be more fun to see who shows up at Temple.
By telescoping the obligatory seven weeks of obsession into a couple of hours, there comes as well a rapid reduction in the level of anxiety.
“We haven’t seen the Goldberg-Nguyens for months, Hon! Did we ever get them something for their partnering ceremony?”
“Not a problem, Pumpkin! We’ll pick up a mezuzah at Fireworks next week and bring it with us to Kol Nidre.”
Our secular Jewish brothers and sisters, of course, don’t know from such troubles. For that unfortunate majority of the Jewish world, there is simply no Jewish autumn. Not, at least, since Sandy Koufax sat down on Yom Kippur in the midst of a World Series.
But that’s ancient history. For most of America’s Jews, autumn is a totally non-ethnic event that usually begins right when it does for the rest of the residents of the hemisphere: on Labor Day. No anxiety, no dread. What’s to worry about? To take a long weekend or not to take – is that the question? Depends on the gas prices. To barbecue or not to barbecue? Since top sirloin is $4.50 a pound anyway, what’s the rush? They’d think twice if they had to consider flanken spare ribs on special at $6.99, down from $7.99!
Reflecting upon all this, a thought occurs to me: Orthodox Jews have a reputation as “traditionalists.” But maybe we’re really on the cutting edge of religious transformation in Judaism! Less than a century ago we had as role models tzaddikim who would lay awake all night on Sukkot eve in order to perform the service of the lulav and etrog at the first possible light. But what’s an insomniac tzaddik compared to a religious culture that transforms an entire season of opportunities for divine service and personal reorientation into extended performances of tirchah d’tzibburah (“communal imposition”). Something to think about next time we’re tempted to brag to our Gentile friends: “Christmas you’re worried about? Try three weeks of yontif!”
I’m reminded of a story my brother Nisan likes to tell about himself. This happened a while ago, about five years into his Orthodox baal t’shuvah-hood. If I get it entirely wrong, he’ll let me know. But here’s how I recall it.
One Friday evening, Nisan found himself walking to shul next to an elder gentleman in his community. After the usual greetings (“A gitn Shabbos! Vos macht a Yid?” “Baruch haShem!”), they started to shmooze.
“I don’t know,” Nis confides. “I used to anticipate Shabbos so intensely. On Yom Kippur I’d weep at Kol Nidre. On Sunday mornings, I couldn’t wait to lay tefillin. Davening three times a day energized me for the challenges of life! And now it’s all just a habit. I’m barely aware of what I’m doing!”
“Ah,” replied the rabbi. “Now you’re religious!”
Martin Jaffee is Chair of the Comparative Religion Program at the University of Washington, and he teaches in both the Comparative Religion and Jewish Studies programs. When not masquerading as a journalist, he writes on the history of Talmudic literature as well as theoretical problems in the study of religion.