S.A.L.T. – ROSH HASHANA 5770

By Rav David Silverberg

MOTZAEI

            The Sha’arei Teshuva commentary to the Orach Chayim section of the Shulchan Arukh (581:1) cites a responsum from the Maharam Zechuta concerning the recitation of Selichot before chatzot (midnight as defined by Halakha).  The Maharam Zekhuta strongly condemns this practice, which was observed in some communities, and insists that the section of the middot rachamim, the thirteen divine attributes of justice, may not be recited until after chatzot.  The vidui (confessional), however, as well as other supplications, may generally be recited anytime, even in the hours prior to chatzot.

Interestingly, the Maharam Zekhuta draws a distinction in this regard between Motza’ei Shabbat and other nights of the Selichot period.  While in general Halakha allows reciting vidui and other prayers for forgiveness (except for the middot rachamim) before chatzot, one must not recite these supplications after Shabbat, until chatzot.  The reason, the Maharam Zekhuta explains, is “mishum kedushat Shabbat” – “because of the sanctity of Shabbat.”

The obvious question arises, why would the “sanctity of Shabbat” preclude the possibility of reciting supplications before chatzot?  Once night has fallen and havdala has been recited, Shabbat has ended.  Why must a person refrain from praying for forgiveness at that point, until chatzot?

Rav Yehuda Amital shelit”a (www.vbm-torah.org/archive/sichot/devarim/51nitz-slichot.htm) explained this ruling based on the comments of the Midrash regarding the verse in Shir Hashirim (1:5), “I am [both] black and comely, O daughters of Jerusalem” (“Shechora ani ve-nava benot Yerushalayim”).  The Midrash explains this to mean, “‘I am black’ on the weekdays, and ‘comely’ on Shabbat; ‘I am black’ all year long, and ‘comely’ on Yom Kippur; ‘I am black’ in this world, and ‘comely’ in the world to come.”  All people are both “black” and “comely”; we all have many beautiful deeds and qualities to our credit, as well as darker sides.  Different times of year call upon us to focus on these different aspects.  On the weekdays, we are “black,” we struggle with our human frailties and strive to make ourselves better.  But on Shabbat, a representation of the next world, we focus on our “comeliness,” we celebrate our achievements and delight in our religious stature.  Shabbat is an occasion to temporarily divert our attention from the “black,” darker aspects of our characters, and to celebrate our fine qualities rather than struggle against our less admirable qualities.

This, Rav Amital explained, is why we must not recite vidui or supplications for forgiveness immediately after Shabbat ends, and why we instead wait until chatzot:

The essence of vidui involves highlighting those deeds which require confession.  While still immersed in the holiness of Shabbat, with the songs of praise still echoing in our ears, while the taste of Shabbat lingers on, we might fail to notice and consider those thoughts and deeds that we must confess.

The mindset of vidui and Selichot is in direct contrast with that of Shabbat.  So long as we remain focused on our “comeliness,” on our achievements and spiritual successes, we cannot begin the grueling process of soul-searching and sincere introspection.  In order to ask God for forgiveness, we must first acknowledge that have sinned, that we have failed.  This recognition is not possible while still feel the lingering effects of the “sanctity of Shabbat,” while we direct our attention toward the brighter sides of ourselves, rather than exploring the “darker” corners.

SUNDAY

            The Gemara famously comments in Masekhet Rosh Hashanah (16a), “Why do we sound the teki’a and teru’a while sitting and sound the teki’a and teru’a while standing – in order to confound the Satan.”  This passage refers to the two sets of shofar blasts which we sound on Rosh Hashanah: the first sounds blown before musaf, and the second set blown during and as part of the musaf service.  The Gemara refers to the sounds blown during the musaf prayer as “while standing,” because we stand during the prayer service.  This is in contrast to the first set of shofar sounds, during which, strictly speaking, one may sit, since these sounds are not blown as part of prayer (though obviously it is customary and proper to stand).  The Gemara explains that we blow two different sets of shofar sounds in order to “confound” the Satan who tries to prosecute against us before the Heavenly Tribunal on Rosh Hashanah.

            The Chatam Sofer suggested an allegorical reading of the Gemara’s comment.  He notes that the Gemara does not simply ask why we blow two sets of shofar sounds.  It rather emphasizes that we sound the teki’a and the teru’a (“toke’in u-meri’in”) in two separate settings.  These two different sounds, as the Chatam Sofer observes, symbolize the two opposite emotions of celebration and desperation.  In Sefer Bamidbar, where the Torah describes the various uses of the chatzotzerot (trumpets), it says that a teki’a is sounded on festive occasions (“u-tkatem ba-chatzotzerot” – Bamidbar 10:10), while the teru’a is blown during times of crisis (“va-harei’otem ba-chatzotzerot” – 10:9).  Thus, the teki’a is the sound blown to express gratitude and celebrate victory, whereas the teru’a is blown at times when we appeal to God for salvation.

            The Gemara wonders why both these sounds are blown “while standing” and “while sitting,” meaning, under all conditions.  When the Jewish people “sit,” when we reside peacefully and comfortably as a prosperous, sovereign nation in our homeland, we are to sound not only the teki’a to thank the Almighty for His graciousness, but also the teru’a, as an expression of submission, anxiety and an appeal for divine assistance.  Conversely, when we “stand,” when Am Yisrael is scattered among hostile nations and subjected to oppression, when we do not have the luxury to “sit,” to reside in comfort and security, we still blow the teki’a, we must nevertheless express our gratitude to God for all He has done for us.

            According to the Chatam Sofer, this is the phenomenon that the Gemara questions.  Why must we pray to God for assistance, and cry for salvation, during times of peace and prosperity, and express praise and thanksgiving during periods of suffering and hardship?

            The Gemara’s answer is “in order to confound the Satan.”  The Chatam Sofer interprets “Satan” here as a reference to the yetzer ha-ra (evil inclination).  We plead for help in times of success and celebrate in times of distress in order to battle both manifestations of the yetzer ha-ra.  The first is the instinct that pulls a person toward excessive indulgence, overconfidence and narcissism, while the other is the tendency to despair.  In times of prosperity, we still sound the teru’a, we continue to appeal to God’s mercy, as a reminder of our vulnerability and existential state of dependence.  And during times of hardship, we must still blow the triumphant sound of the teki’a, to remind ourselves of God’s benevolence even in our darkest hours, so that we do not fall into despair and lose faith.

            Together, the teki’a and the teru’a have the capacity to “confound the Satan,” to empower us in our struggle against human frailties.  The delicate balance between the panicked cry of the teru’a, and the proud, confident, celebratory blast of the teki’a, help guarantee that we will never feel too secure or too despondent, too independent or too helpless, so that we can overcome both the spiritual challenges of success as well as the spiritual challenges of hardship.

MONDAY

            The Bach commentary to the Tur (O.C. 593) writes that it is proper for the ba’al teki’a (person sounding the shofar in the synagogue) to keep the shofar covered while reciting the berakha over the shofar.  He should hold the shofar during the berakha – just as one always takes hold of the mitzva article while reciting the berakha over that mitzva – but ensure to keep the shofar covered until he is ready to blow.

            The Acharonim offer different reasons to explain this seemingly enigmatic ruling, which has indeed become the widespread practice.  (The explanations presented here are taken from Rav Matis Blum’s Torah La-da’at.)

            The work Binyan Olam (31) explains that by covering the shofar, the ba’al teki’a declares that he does not intend for the berakha to apply only to that specific shofar.  It occasionally happens that a ba’al teki’a experiences difficulty blowing a certain shofar, and decides to switch to a different shofar.  In such a case, he would have to recite a new berakha before blowing the second shofar, unless he had intention while reciting the original berakha that it should apply to all shofarot.  Covering the shofar while reciting the berakha serves to express the ba’al teki’a’s intent to have the berakha refer to all shofarot, and not specifically to the one with which he begins.  It therefore obviates the need to recite a new berakha if he decides later to change to a different shofar.

            Others explain this custom as part of our effort to “confound the Satan.”  As we mentioned yesterday, the Gemara points to this objective as the reason for blowing two different series of shofar sounds, and this is also the reason given for refraining from blowing the shofar on Erev Rosh Hashanah.  By the same token, we “hide” the shofar until the last moment so that the Satan will be “caught off guard” by the sound of the shofar without being given any advanced notice or time to prepare his response.

            The Radal (introduction to the Zohar) suggested that we hide the shofar in commemoration of akeidat Yitzchak, the merit of which we seek to invoke as we stand in judgment before God.  The Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 56) relates that as Avraham constructed the altar upon which he planned to sacrifice his son, he “hid” Yitzchak.  He wanted to keep Yitzchak away from the building site so that he would not get hurt, as this would disqualify him as a sacrifice.  We “hide” the shofar to invoke the merit of Avraham, who not only obeyed the unfathomably difficult command of the akeida, but even took great pains to ensure that it would be properly fulfilled.

            Finally, Rav Matis Blum suggested that we hide and then retrieve the shofar to symbolize the pattern of the “eilo shel Yitzchak” – the ram which Avraham ultimately offered as a sacrifice in place of Yitzchak.  The Midrashim teach that this ram revealed itself on a number of occasions throughout Jewish history.  It was the left horn of that ram which was sounded at Mount Sinai, its sinews were used for King David’s lyre, its hide was used to make clothing for the prophet Eliyahu, and its right horn will be sounded with the advent of the Messianic era (Yalkut Shimoni, Vayera 101).  We conceal and then reveal the shofar to allude to the fact that, throughout our nation’s history, the merit of akeidat Yitzchak has been “pulled out” and retrieved to rescue us and render us worthy of God’s assistance.  As we stand in judgment on Rosh Hashanah, we sound the shofar – the symbol of akeidat Yitzchak – in an effort to invoke the merit of Avraham and Yitzchak which we so desperately need.  We retrieve the shofar from underneath a cloth to show that this merit has so often been “pulled out” to save us in the past, and will hopefully save us once again this year, as well.

TUESDAY

            On the first day of Rosh Hashanah, we read for the haftara the story of the birth of the prophet Shemuel, which is told in the opening chapter of Sefer Shemuel.  The story begins by informing us that Elkana, Shemuel’s father, would make an annual pilgrimage to the Mishkan, which was then located in the city of Shilo.

            The Yalkut Shimoni relates that Elkana and his family not only frequented Shilo each year, but they also encouraged many others to do the same.  Along the way, they would spend their nights “bi-rchovah shel ir,” in the city square, where large crowds of people would gather around the travelers and inquire as to where they were headed.  Elkana and his family would explain that they were traveling “to the house of God in Shilo, from where Torah and mitzvot come forth.”  They would then add, “Why don’t you come with us, and we will go together?”  The Yalkut tells that the people began crying upon hearing about the Mishkan, and many people joined Elkana each year.  Gradually, throngs of devoted pilgrims began visiting the sacred site thanks to Elkana’s influence.

            The clear implication of the Yalkut is that before Elkana’s efforts to persuade people to visit the Mishkan, it had been all but forgotten.  The impression we have is that the people became disenchanted with the Mishkan and felt no interest in frequenting the site.  It took Elkana’s charisma and intensive “public relations” campaign to rekindle the people’s enthusiasm about the Mishkan and the opportunity to bring sacrifices to the Almighty.

            One likely reason for this disillusionment is the corruption of the kohanim Chofni and Pinchas, of which we read in the second chapter of Sefer Shemuel.  Chofni and Pinchas were the sons of the elderly kohen gadol, and, presumably, held influential positions in the Mishkan.  We are told (2:12-17) that they abused the sacrificial system, receiving portions of meat to which they were not entitled, and eating these portions before the sacrificial meat became permissible for consumption.  Later (2:22), we read that Chofni and Pinchas committed even more grievous offenses, and “slept with the women who frequented the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.”  We can easily imagine how this misconduct bred widespread disgust with the Mishkan among the masses, who gradually lost interest in the institution of the Sanctuary and the ritual offerings.

            Interestingly, the Gemara in Masekhet Yoma (9a) comments that Chofni and Pinchas were not guilty of actually “sleeping with the women who frequented the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.”  Rather, the Gemara explains, the kohanim were lax in offering the bird-offerings that women are required to bring to the Mishkan as part of their purification process after childbirth.  Chofni and Pinchas would often delay tending to these sacrifices, and it was to emphasize the gravity of this sin that the verse describes them as having engaged in illicit relationships.

            The question arises, why did Chofni and Pinchas delay offering the women’s bird sacrifices, and why did the prophet view this transgression with such severity?

            Rav Yoshiyahu Pinto, in his Peirush Ha-Rif commentary to Ein Yaakov, explained that this sin relates to the other offense committed by the kohanim, namely, abusing their privileges to the sacrificial meat.  Chofni and Pinchas gave priority to the large animal sacrifices over the smaller bird-offerings, which did not offer them as much food.  They irresponsibly and selfishly delayed the bird-offerings because these sacrifices were less profitable than the offerings of sheep and cattle.

            The Chatam Sofer, however, suggested a much different approach, claiming that Chofni and Pinchas acted out of misplaced altruism.  The kohanim served not only as the attendants in the Mishkan, but also as the nation’s scholars and teachers.  Possibly, the Chatam Sofer writes, Chofni and Pinchas felt it would be improper to interrupt their studies for the purpose of tending to the women’s sacrifices so they could return to their husbands in a state of ritual purity.  They prioritized their commitment to Torah learning over the needs of the families awaiting the completion of the wives’ purification process after childbirth.  The Chatam Sofer speculates that perhaps for this reason Chofni and Pinchas are introduced (in the third verse of Sefer Shemuel) with the description, “kohanim le-Hashem” (“kohanim for the Lord”).  They acted “priestly” with respect to their obligations to God, but not as regards their duties to their fellowmen.  They mistakenly afforded greater importance to their personal service of God than to their basic responsibilities to other people, and for this they were gravely punished.

            This, too, likely contributed to the discontent and disillusionment among the nation.  Upon seeing the kohanim focused solely on their own religious growth, without showing basic concern and sensitivity to others, they lost any sense of connection that they may have felt toward the Mishkan.

            All Am Yisrael are enjoined to serve as a “mamlekhet kohanim” (“kingdom of priests” – Shemot 19:6), to follow the kohanim’s model of devoting one’s life to serving God.  The story of Chofni and Pinchas, as explained by the Chatam Sofer, reminds us that this role cannot possibly be fulfilled through ritualistic devotion devoid of basic sensitivity to the needs and concerns of other people.  One cannot be a “kohen le-Hashem” without being a “kohen” for people.  Our “priestly” responsibilities require us to devote ourselves to the highest standards of strict ritual observance without compromising our standards of interpersonal conduct.  We will then fulfill our national mission to serve as a “kingdom of kohanim and sacred nation,” representing to the world the high spiritual and ethical standards that the Almighty demands.

WEDNESDAY

            The opening chapter of Sefer Shemuel – which we read as the haftara for the first day of Rosh Hashanah – begins by introducing Elkana, the father of the prophet Shemuel.  Elkana is described as a man “from Ramatayim Tzofim.”  While according to the plain reading of the text this term clearly refers to the geographic location where Elkana lived, the Gemara in Masekhet Megila (14a) offers several homiletic interpretations of this verse.  According to one view, this verse means that Elkana was among the two hundred prophets who received prophetic messages from God.  This view understands the term “tzofim” to mean “seers,” and thus alludes to Elkana’s membership in the prophetic class.  The second view in the Gemara interprets “Ramatayim Tzofim” to mean “shetei ramot ha-tzofot zo la-zo” – “two peaks which look out upon one other.”  Another words, Elkana hailed from a region which was known for having two adjacent peaks.

            The Chatam Sofer suggested that both views actually offer the same interpretation of this verse.  The description of “two peaks that look out upon one another,” the Chatam Sofer explains, is an allegorical reference to the prophets who lived among Benei Yisrael.  Although the nation produced numerous prophets, these prophets “looked out upon one another,” they focused their attention on one another, and not on the rest of the nation.  They formed an exclusive class of the nation’s spiritual elite, without concerning themselves with improving the people and enhancing their devotion to God.  In the Chatam Sofer’s words, “They would ‘look out upon one another’ and did not reprove Israel, as it is written in Yechezkel (3:17), ‘I have appointed you as a tzofeh [seer] for the House of Israel.’  But they were not like this; rather, some prophets looked upon the other prophets, and did not supervise over Israel.”  The prophets before Elkana failed in their mission to bring God’s message to the rest of the nation and work toward lifting Am Yisrael out of its spiritual lethargy and igniting their commitment and devotion to Torah.

            It was Elkana who broke this pattern and made a proactive effort to inspire the masses.  As we mentioned yesterday, the Midrash describes Elkana’s campaign to restore the nation’s enthusiasm toward the Mishkan, in which the people had become disinterested.  He understood that his prophetic stature required him to “look upon” not only his fellow prophets, but the entire nation; he realized that instead of surrounding himself with only people of his stature, he must take a genuine interest in all members of Am Yisrael.  It was only befitting, as the Chatam Sofer noted, that Elkana would beget Shemuel, the prophet who worked tirelessly to direct the nation’s hearts to God, and succeeded in leading the people back to their spiritual roots.

THURSDAY

            Earlier this week, we cited the Gemara’s famous statement in Masekhet Rosh Hashanah (16) that we blow two series of shofar blasts on Rosh Hashanah in order to “confound the Satan.”  Different explanations have been offered throughout the ages for the concept of “confounding the Satan” and how exactly the additional series of shofar sounds achieves this goal.

            Rav Dov Weinberger, in his Shemen Ha-tov, suggests that the Gemara here refers to the concept of “Satan” alluded to in the Midrash Bereishit Rabba (17:6).  The Midrash notes that the letter samekh does not appear in the Torah until the story of the creation of Chava, where we read that God had Adam fall asleep and then removed one of his ribs from which he made a woman (“va-yisgor basar tachtena” – Bereishit 2:21).  The introduction of the letter samekh in this context, the Midrash explains, alludes to the fact that the Satan (a word which Chazal apparently spelled with the letter samekh, as opposed to sin) was created at that time, when God formed Chava from Adam’s rib.  Rav Weinberger explained this to mean that “Satan,” which is often used as a reference to the human being’s sinful instincts, came into being the first time Adam slept.  Inactivity and indolence – represented in the extreme by sleep – are the primary triggers of the yetzer ha-ra (evil inclination).  When a person discontinues the ongoing, active pursuit of valuable achievements, and instead retreats into a state of lethargy, pursuing relaxation and comfort instead of meaningful, productive goals, he becomes vulnerable to the machinations of the yetzer ha-ra.  Chazal identified Satan’s origins in the creation of woman because it was then when a human being slept for the first time, and inactivity and complacency are often the root cause of spiritual decay.

            It is in this sense, Rav Weinberger suggested, that the shofar serves to “confound the Satan.”  The Rambam, in one of the most famous passages in his Mishneh Torah (Hilkhot Teshuva 3:4), explained the mitzva of shofar as a symbol of the need on Rosh Hashanah to “awaken” from our spiritual “slumber.”  The shofar serves as a siren jolting us from our thoughtless routine of self-gratification and religious apathy, and reminding us of the higher purpose for which we were created.  The sounding of the shofar thus represents the antithesis of “sleep,” of passivity and indifference.  It calls upon us to reenergize ourselves and inject into our lives a degree of spiritual vigor and passion.  The extra set of shofar blasts, in particular, indicates that we are not content with satisfying the minimal demands of the Torah, but rather aspire to higher standards.  It thus represents the zeal, vigor and proactive effort with which we must approach our religious obligations.

            This is the way to “confound the Satan,” to avoid the challenges posed by our innate negative tendencies – through vigor, energy and zeal, and by resisting the temptation to “slumber” and go through life with lethargic passivity.

FRIDAY

            The Midrash (Yalkut Shimoni, Emor 645) comments, “All days of the year, [the people of] Israel are engaged in their work, and on Rosh Hashanah, they take shofarot and sound them before the Almighty…and He is filled with compassion for them.”

            It seems from the Midrash that we earn divine mercy in judgment on Rosh Hashanah by virtue of the fact that we disrupt our professional routine for the blowing of the shofar.  The obvious question arises, why does this apply only to the mitzva of shofar?  Don’t all mitzvot entail some investment of time?  Moreover, it is not the mitzva of shofar that takes us away from our professional pursuits on Rosh Hashanah, as much as the prohibition against melakha that applies on this day.  We don’t work on Rosh Hashanah because work is forbidden, just like on Shabbat, and not because we need to hear the shofar.  How, then, may we understand the Midrash’s comment?

            It would seem that the Midrash refers not to taking out time, but rather changing our mindset and focus.  Yesterday we made reference to the Rambam’s famous comments in Hilkhot Teshuva (3:4) regarding the symbolic role of the shofar to “awaken” us from our spiritual “slumber.”  The Rambam writes:

Even though sounding the shofar on Rosh Hashanah is a Scriptural decree, it [also] contains an allusion, as if to say: Awaken, those who sleep, from your sleep, and arise, those who slumber, from your slumber; inspect your deeds and perform repentance, and remember your Creator, those who forget the truth amidst the vanities of the time, and waste the entire year in vanity and vacuity which can neither yield benefit or rescue.  Look into yourselves and improve your paths and deeds; let each of you return from his evil way, and [from] his improper thoughts.

            As symbolized by the shofar, Rosh Hashanah is a time to disrupt our normal, mindless routine, take stock of our lives, and reassess our conduct, values and priorities.  All year round, the Midrash writes, we are “engaged” in our work, expending our time and energies disproportionately upon the pursuit of wealth and the fulfillment of our physical and material ambitions.  On Rosh Hashanah, however, we sound the shofar, we wake ourselves up from this slumber and spend some time seriously thinking and evaluating ourselves.  When God sees us disrupting our routine for this purpose, pulling over to the side of the road to make sure we’re traveling in the right direction, and, perhaps even more importantly, changing the route upon determining that a change is indeed in order, then He is “filled with compassion.”

            Rosh Hashanah is the day when God judges us, but is also a time for us to judge ourselves.  According to this Midrashic passage, this might in fact be the key to a favorable judgment – taking an honest look at ourselves and being prepared to make the changes in our routine that are necessary to become the avdei Hashem that we were created to be.