I've been talking about the rush of Jewish holidays at this time of year, but so far I haven't talked about the Succot holiday.  And actually, I'm not going to talk about Succot today, either.  I'm going to talk about Simchat Torah.

Simchat Torah is simply Hebrew for "rejoicing in the Torah." It's a holiday that is traditionally added to the end of Succot, and on it, we celebrate the completion of one year's cycle of Torah readings, and the immediate beginning of the new year's cycle of readings.

It's a fun holiday.  There's a lot of singing and dancing, and sweet treats to eat, and just about everyone in the synagogue will be called up to the Torah during the reading.  Instead of the normal half dozen or so aliyot, there can be as many as 20.  It's really a great big reading party.

The center of this reading party is reached when we read the last verse of the Torah, because then, instead of putting the scroll aside, we have another one handy and immediately read the first verse.  The idea is to show that Torah never ends, and that reading and learning Torah never ends.  It's one of the more successful pieces of symbolism that I have ever seen.

So this year, I volunteered to read B'reishiet, the very first aliyah in the Torah, on Simchat Torah.  I think it will be a very good way to start the year: the festive solemnity of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, followed a week or so later, by reading the very first words of Scripture, "In the beginning..."  I'm looking forward to it.

In my last post, I spoke about my views on the Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur holiday season.  Mostly, though, I talked about our relation with God during these weeks, and how we turn to Him in true repentence for our misdeeds, and ask His mercy and forgiveness, and His blessing for the coming year.  It's a solemn time, but joyful, because the underlying assumption of the holidays is, that if we are truly penitient, then our petition will be answered.

This only applies to sins which we commit between ourselves and God, however.  After all, if we wrong another person, how can God forgive us?  Only the person we have wronged can do that.

Which brings me to the second main theme of the holidays, making amends.

This is a time of year that we try to track down the people we may have wronged, whether by hurting them physically, or emotionally, or in business or personal matters, and we try to apologize.

We also try to make amends, whether by paying back a debt, or fulfilling a promise, or even just admitting that we'd done wrong.  As you can imagine, for people who take on this burden, this time of year can be very trying.

It can also be uplifting.  There is something wonderful about approaching your friends and admitting that you aren't always the best person, and trying to do better, right then.  It's especially touching if your friends reciprocate.

All of this, this striving to improve our interpersonal relations, goes hand-in-hand with our inner striving to improve ourselves in God's eyes.  The two imperitives will strengthen each other, if you approach them honestly, and taken together, they can help you to make a really positive change in your own life.

And that's what this holiday season is about.

We are quickly approaching the Jewish "holiday season;" those weeks in late summer and early fall when the holidays of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Succot come in rapid succession.

For Jews, this is a wonderful time of year.  It's even the best time of year.  It's a time of true joy, combined with spiritual uplift, and deep solemnity, all wrapped up in one package.

Many non-Jews don't seem to get the message of this holiday season.  I have heard non-Jewish acquaintances refer to the "High Holy Days" (the Hebrew term for this time translates as "Days of Awe," which I'll get to soon enough) as a depressing time, and they've added that it can't be fun or happy if all we do is pray.

I never dodge that question, because these really are among my favorite holidays.  It's true, that during these holidays we don't engage in any of the outward symbols of happiness that Western culture so values, but there is a good reason:  These are the days that we commune directly with God.  On Rosh Hashanah, the New Year on the Jewish calendar, we turn to God with a humble heart and pray fervently that He grant us a good year.  We ask for health, for communal prosperity, and a life full of blessings.  It is said in the Jewish tradition that on this day, God writes down the decrees for the whole of the human race: who shall live, and who shall die, who shall succeed, and who shall fail.  Do you remember the song "Who by fire?" by Leonard Cohen?  The lyrics for that song come from a prayer recited on Rosh Hashanah.

On Yom Kippur, things are even more solemn.  It is our tradition that on this day, the annual Day of Judgement, God seals the Rosh Hashanah decrees.  And so, on this day, we fast, we approach God humbly and pray for forgiveness for our sins, and we publicly confess our wrongdoings.  The confessional prayers on Yom Kippur, recited communally, are deeply moving: no one could actually commit all of those wrongdoings and stay out of jail, but we admit them anyway, knowing that somewhere in our community someone has done it, and knowing that we are all responsible for each other.  On Yom Kippur, we repent, and ask God for mercy.

And here is the joy of this season: our God is merciful, and if we turn to Him in true repentence, we know that we'll be granted forgiveness, and a chance to do better for the coming year.  What could be more reason for joy than that?

Every Shabbat, in every synagogue anywhere in the world, read Torah.  In fact, we read the same section, no matter where we are in the world.  The entire Torah is divided up into portions, and the whole thing is read over the course of a year.

Some synagogues have a regular Torah reader; others, like mine, do not, and the readings are arranged by the congregants among themselves.  I read the two aliyot, because it was the parsha that fell the week my grandfather died.  I didn't tell anyone, but I think he'd appreciate my remembering him that way.

So what does it take to read Torah?  Well, to start with, you at least need the basics of the Hebrew language.  A Torah scroll is written in Hebrew, without vowels or punctuation marks.  If you can't at least recognize the letters, then you can't read the script.  Second, you need to learn the trope.  Trope is the melody with which the text is chanted.  Learning to chant Torah with the correct trope will actually help when you are reading from the scroll, since the trope melody will take the place of punctuation, and help you to know when verses are beginning and ending.

If all of that sounds like a lot, it is.  I have heard native Hebrew speakers read Torah, and get completely turned around on the pronunciation of a word.  The script is written in a fancy calligraphy, and while modern written Hebrew leaves out the vowels, there is punctuation.

So, before reading last week, I studied.  The study paid off; I read well, and thought of Granddad the whole time.

Every summer, around this time, I get the same questions from non-Jewish friends and coworkers"

"Starting a beard?"

"Lose your razor?"

"Washing machine broke down?"

I'll answer them now, in writing, in the vain hope that I won't have to answer them again next year.

No, no, and no.  It's just the three weeks.

The three weeks in question are the ones between the seventeenth of Tammuz and the ninth of Av on the Jewish calendar.  They usually fall in mid to late summer, sometime in July or August by the secular calendar.  They are a period of semi-mourning for observant Jews, during which we observe some of the strictures of formal mourning: no shaving, no meat, no music, no swimming.  As for me, I'm a lousy swimmer, and I just can't do without music, so I make a point of not shaving.  As some of you out there may have noticed.

The reason for this is historical.  The seventeenth of Tammuz marked the start fo the seige of Jerusalem, by the Babylonians in the days of the First Temple and by the Romans in the time of the Second, and the ninth of Av marked the destruction of each Temple.  To this day, Jews remember these events.  While disatrous, they were central to the development of modern Judaism (but that would be a whole other post). 

The starting and ending days, 17 Tammuz and 9 Av, are both fast days.  On Tisha b'Av (9th of Av), we read the Book of Lamentations in the synagogue.  Traditionally, Lamentations is read sitting on the floor, in a darkend room.

So that's why I haven't shaved lately.  I have found, as Jews throughout history have found, that this public display of mourning for the disasters in our history paradoxically helps to keep our minds off of those events.  We know when to cry over it; the rest of the time, we get on with living.  As usual, Judaism affirms life, even in death and disaster.

I am writing this on Sunday, 22 July.  The day after tomorrow is Tisha b'Av, the ninth day of the month of Av on the Jewish calendar.

Tisha b'Av is a fast day, one of six on the Jewish calendar.  On Tuesday, the fast will run from about 7:45am to 8:15pm.  During the fast, we are not to eat or drink, listen to music, or be intimate with a spouse.  It is a time of mourning, for historically, the two Temples in Jerusalem were both destroyed on Tisha b'Av, and even after 1900 years, we remember, and we mourn the loss.

Traditionally, observant Jews will gather in the synagogue the evening before the fast (the day begins at sundown on the Jewish calendar, so while the fast is on a Tuesday this year, Tisha b'Av actually begins at sundown on Monday) to read Eicha, the Book of Lamentations.  The Lamentations are read sitting down on the floor, by candlelight, in an otherwise darkened room.  The chanting goes to a very sad melody.  While I can't say that I like Tisha b'Av, I've always been deeply moved by the reading of Eicha; my Hebrew is not good enough to follow the reading, and I am not familiar with the Book in English, but it still touches me every year.

This deeply moving reading is followed the next day by the Fast.  I have always felt something deeply spiritual about the observances of this day.  The public reading of the Lamentations, a formalized, ancient, poem of deep sadness, is followed by the very private ritual of fasting the next morning.  It's a one-two punch that drives home the true sadness of the day.

I have said before, and I meant it, so I'll say it again, that Judaism is not an ascetic religion.  We are not supposed to deny ourselves the pleasures of the world, nor are we supposed to spend our days in sadness.  Rather, the good things in life are taken in moderation, because they really can make life worth living.

But sometimes, there are ascetic days in Judaism.  Those, too, are taken in moderation.  There's an essential recognition in Judaism that it's OK to mourn, and OK to remember the tragedies of the past, but also that we cannot dwell on them.  As usual in Judaism, life is for the living, and is meant to be lived.

A lot of Jewish tradition revolves around food. 

I remember the matzah balls of my youth (small, hard, and slightly rubbery) with far more affection than those of my present (soft and fluffy), despite their obvious shortcomings (difficult to digest).  I remember the wonderful smell of simmering cholent on Shabbat, and chopping apples and walnuts for the Pesah charoset.  I remember the time that Dad "missed" while flipping Hanuka potato latkes, and one stuck to the ceiling.  We learned two things that night: first, that batch wasn't greasy enough (or it would have stuck), and second, that latkes really will stick to the ribs.

So what is it with Jews and food?  Why do we have so many idiosyncratic dishes?

Part of it, I think, stems from centuries of poverty and oppression.  When a people is held down for so long, they'll learn ways to make the most of whatever resource they have.  My great-grandmother, who was born in a Russian shtetl, used to say that she could make a five-course meal with one soup chicken and a loaf of bread.  I remember watching her in action; I can tell you, those five-course meals of hers took some wizardry in the kitchen.

Part of it, also, however, is our requirement at holidays to rejoice.  That's actually in the Torah, in the descriptions of the various holidays: that, with due regard to the solemnity of the day, we are also to celebrate.  And what better way to celebrate, than with a good meal?

Judaism, for some reason, has a reputation as an ascetic religion, but I have to disagree with that characterization.  Rather, it is a religion that embraces life and experience without excess.

It's considered a mitzvah (which means "commandment," but also has the connotation of "good deed") to rejoice on our holidays, and there are blessings to God for the beauty of the natural world.  It's even a mitzvah for married couples to make love on Shabbat!  Judaism recognizes the physical side of our lives, and understands the need for an outlet.

And for moderation.  Judaism also recognizes that unbridled lust, in any context, will lead only to a bad end.  We traditionally drink wine on all of our holidays, but only on the holiday of Purim, a day of great silliness, are allowed to get drunk.

To everything there is a season...

I've talked about Shabbat, and what's meaningful to me, and I've quoted the Bible and talked about some of the very basics of Jewish belief, so now I'm going to talk about Kashrut.

Reading the word, you may guess, correctly, that Kashrut describes the laws of keeping kosher, the Jewish dietary laws.  Kashrut is a positive command laid on the Jewish people in the Torah; by a positive command, I mean that it is a "Thou shalt" rather than a "Thou shalt not."  Kashrut is something that all Jews are supposed to do, whether they do so or not.

The basic rules are simple.  We cannot mix meat and dairy products, and we are not allowed to eat certain animals.  Permitted foods are: animals that have split hooves, and chew their cud; birds that do not eat carrion; fish that have both fins and scales; all plants.  Generally, animals are considered meat, although fish is parve, neither meat nor dairy, and can be eaten with either.  Plants, also, are parve.

Most kosher-observant Jews have seperate dishes, silverware, and pots and pans for meat and dairy.  This allows us (yup, I'm one) to more easily keep the separation between the two.  We also tend to avoid exotic meats; it's easier to keep a kosher kitchen if you stick with the readily available kosher meat: beef, chicken, turkey.  Besides, a creative cook can get some great meals with those three.

To ensure that meat and dairy are separate, there's a waiting time between eating them.  If you eat dairy first, you should wait 30 to 60 minutes before eating meat; if you eat meat first, the wait is 1 to 6 hours.  The differences in times reflect different Jewish traditions from different areas of the world.

And those are the basic rules of Kashrut.  I'm not a scholar on the subject; I'm just a guy who's lived it all his life, and is used to it.  But you don't need to be a scholar to see that it's not so onerous as many non-Jews believe.

Everyone is familiar with the Book of Ecclesiastes, even if they don't that they're familiar with it.  Vanity of vanities is a cliche, the Birds wrote a famous song, with lyrics straight from Chapter 3 (To everything there is a season, and time to every purpose under heaven: Eccl. 3:1), and the late science fiction author Roger Zelazny's novella A Rose for Ecclesiastes was a Hugo award nominee in 1963.

So what is this book, and why is it in the Bible, anyway?  I'm not a scholar, and I don't really have the space in this blog to answer that question fully, but I can put in my own two cents.

Ecclesiastes is a Greek word for "Preacher;" in Hebrew, the book is called "Koheleth," which means the same thing.  Koheleth is the narrator of the work; based on the opening sentence (The words of Koheleth, son of David, king in Jerusalem), he is usually identified with King Soloman.

Ecclesiastes is a work of deep pessimism, and also soaring optimism.  Reading it, you look at life from the standpoint of great wealth, and great poverty, and are asked to wonder what is the use?  Most of the book ponders why some men get rich, while other die young, or why we should work when we can't take the gains with us, but it is also full of proverbs.  The book breaks through the sadness and pessimism, though, to reach an interesting conclusion:

Chapter 9, verse 10: Whatever it is in your power to do, do with all your might.  For there is no action, no reasoning, so learning, no wisdom in the grave, where you are going.

That's deep, and, to me, it reaches back to Deut. 30:19: Choose life, that you may live.  Judaism affirms life, revels in life, teaches us to live our lives fully, and to remember who gave us those lives.

Let's talk about what Judaism really is; what it says, what it means, and what are the basic rules.

There is a famous story about Rabbi Hillel (he lived about 1900 years ago), and his response to a man who came to mock him.  The man said, "Rabbi, I want you to teach me everything there is to know about Judaism while stand here on one leg."  Hillel was not fazed; he responded, "Don't do to others what would be hateful to you.  The rest is commentary.  Now go and study."  It's said that the man was impressed, and became a convert to Judaism within a few months.

Every religion has it's basic tenets, and Judaism is no exception.  Hillel's formulation is a Jewish version of Christianity's Golden Rule: Treat others the way you would want them to treat you.  I find the Jewish version to be more subtle; it recognizes that other might not want to be treated the way we want to be treated, but that what's hateful is frequently universal, and should be avoided.

There are some other basics, too.  The Torah (five books of Moses) is full of them.  Here is my favorite:

I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day, that I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse; therefore choose life, that you may live, you and your children.  Deut. 30:19

Judaism is a life-affirming religion.  It's no surprise that, while we read about all the violence in the Middle East, we never hear about Jewish suicide bombers.  The concept is just antithetical to us.  We are given the choice of life or death, with free will to choose as we will, but we are also told, Choose life, and live.

I'll get to more of the basics in future posts.