One of the most beautiful aspects of the Sukkot pageantry are the Four Species that we bring into our homes, our sukkot and our synagogues, and over which we recite our psalms and praise to G-d. Jewish law dictates that these four indigenous products of Israel are to be held together as we chant the blessings and wave the species: the etrog (citron), which has both taste and fragrance, and therefore symbolizes those Jews who study Torah and perform good deeds; the lulav (palm branch), which has taste but not fragrance, thus symbolizing the Jews learned in Torah but devoid of good deeds; the hadas (myrtle), which has fragrance without taste, symbolizing those Jews with good deeds but without Torah learning; and the aravah (willow), which has neither taste nor fragrance, neither Torah learning nor good deeds.
Jewish custom dictates that the latter three are actually bound up together with branches of the palm tree, while the etrog is held in close proximity (it would be awkward to include the etrog in the bond). In this sense, these four species become a natural continuation of the major theme of our High Holy Day prayer: "And may all Your formed beings be in awe of You, and may all Your creations bow down before You, so that they all may form a single and united bond to do Your will with a full heart." Just as all of G-d's creations must coalesce into one bond (agudah), so do these four species - representative of every kind of Jew across the Jewish spectrum - form together as one (eged).
It is especially significant that the aravah - symbolizing the Jew with neither learning nor deeds - is an integral part of the united Jewish people. There is a famous Hassidic dictum that the Hebrew word for congregation, tzibur, comprises three consonants, each standing for another type of Jew: tz is the first letter of tzaddik or righteous person; b stands for beinoni or the average Jew; and the r stands for the rasha or wicked Jew. A full Jewish community must consist of every stripe and every type of Jew.
The Tsemah Tsedek (a 19th century leader of Chabad-Lubavitch) illumined this concept in a very beautiful way. He teaches that the Jews are Biblically compared to the stars of the heaven and the dust of the earth. Stars are a complimentary analogy, since they light up a darkened sky; dust of the earth seems rather derogatory, since dust is trod upon and spat upon. The great rabbi explained, however, that the dust only seems to be of lesser significance. Once you dig deeply and reach into the recesses of the earth, you discover the greatest of natural resources, gold and oil. Hence, the Jew who appears to be an arava has the potential to become - and may in actuality already be - the truest of tzaddikim.
Those who assume a less kindly attitude towards the aravah-type Jew may very well argue that I am conveniently forgetting what we do on Hoshanah Raba, the last day of the festival of Sukkot. Do we not then remove the aravah from its bond with the etrog, lulav and hadas, and separate it, taking it by itself? Following my earlier symbolism, might that not suggest that we cannot afford to have the other species of plant life, or the other types of Jewish communal life, come into too close contact for too long a time with the aravah-Jew? And, as if isolation were not enough, we then proceed to take the hapless aravah and bang it on the ground five times, until it becomes very much smattered and wilted. How does that fit into my earlier theory?
The sacred Zohar, based upon the symbolism first suggested by the Bible itself where the plant is described as the "willows near a stream" (aravei nahal in Leviticus 23:40), comes to the rescue of the aravah. Because of its perennial proximity to water, and because waterways generally flow in a constantly replenishing stream, which provides sustenance and life, the willow is identified by our mystical tradition with G-d's lovingkindness (chesed), one of the highest and most exalted of the Divine Attributes (Sefirot). The earth, which often serves as a dam and limitation to the water's generous overflow, symbolizes G-d's stern judgment (Din or Gevurah).
During the judgment period of the festivals of the Hebrew month of Tishrei, we are petitioning the Almighty to allow His lovingkindness to overcome His stern judgment; indeed, it is in this spirit that we conclude our festivals with Sh'mini Atzeret, on which we pray for G-d?s life-giving rain, His waters of purity and vitality. The aravah may not look, taste or smell very impressively, but for the mystical tradition, it represents the zenith of the four species. And when we use it to smite the earth, we are merely acting out our desire for G-d's lovingkindness to vanquish His stern judgment.
Now we can understand why the great Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Bereditchev would specifically invite the aravah-Jews into his sukkah. Most people are not what they make themselves appear to be, or even how others perceive them to be. Society often takes on the external form of a masquerade party, in which - when the masks are taken off - almost everyone is surprised to see the real person under the mask. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak especially valued the aravah: for what it could become and even for what it actually was, albeit hidden from the public eye.
And even if the aravah-Jew truly proved to be without learning and without deeds, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak would still have wanted him as an honored sukkah guest.
"After all," he would say, "everything is relative. When I come to the true and eternal world, I myself would like a seat in the great sukkah of Leviathan, where father Abraham makes the blessings and Moses our teacher provides the Torah classes and King David sings the songs. The keeper of the gate may very well try to refuse me admission, seeing that throughout the generations there have been many more learned than I and more pious than I. My response will then be that in the merit of my having invited the aravah-Jew into my sukkah, I would like to have the merit of having a seat - even if it be at the very end - in the sukkah of Leviathan."
Jewish custom dictates that the latter three are actually bound up together with branches of the palm tree, while the etrog is held in close proximity (it would be awkward to include the etrog in the bond). In this sense, these four species become a natural continuation of the major theme of our High Holy Day prayer: "And may all Your formed beings be in awe of You, and may all Your creations bow down before You, so that they all may form a single and united bond to do Your will with a full heart." Just as all of G-d's creations must coalesce into one bond (agudah), so do these four species - representative of every kind of Jew across the Jewish spectrum - form together as one (eged).
It is especially significant that the aravah - symbolizing the Jew with neither learning nor deeds - is an integral part of the united Jewish people. There is a famous Hassidic dictum that the Hebrew word for congregation, tzibur, comprises three consonants, each standing for another type of Jew: tz is the first letter of tzaddik or righteous person; b stands for beinoni or the average Jew; and the r stands for the rasha or wicked Jew. A full Jewish community must consist of every stripe and every type of Jew.
The Tsemah Tsedek (a 19th century leader of Chabad-Lubavitch) illumined this concept in a very beautiful way. He teaches that the Jews are Biblically compared to the stars of the heaven and the dust of the earth. Stars are a complimentary analogy, since they light up a darkened sky; dust of the earth seems rather derogatory, since dust is trod upon and spat upon. The great rabbi explained, however, that the dust only seems to be of lesser significance. Once you dig deeply and reach into the recesses of the earth, you discover the greatest of natural resources, gold and oil. Hence, the Jew who appears to be an arava has the potential to become - and may in actuality already be - the truest of tzaddikim.
Those who assume a less kindly attitude towards the aravah-type Jew may very well argue that I am conveniently forgetting what we do on Hoshanah Raba, the last day of the festival of Sukkot. Do we not then remove the aravah from its bond with the etrog, lulav and hadas, and separate it, taking it by itself? Following my earlier symbolism, might that not suggest that we cannot afford to have the other species of plant life, or the other types of Jewish communal life, come into too close contact for too long a time with the aravah-Jew? And, as if isolation were not enough, we then proceed to take the hapless aravah and bang it on the ground five times, until it becomes very much smattered and wilted. How does that fit into my earlier theory?
The sacred Zohar, based upon the symbolism first suggested by the Bible itself where the plant is described as the "willows near a stream" (aravei nahal in Leviticus 23:40), comes to the rescue of the aravah. Because of its perennial proximity to water, and because waterways generally flow in a constantly replenishing stream, which provides sustenance and life, the willow is identified by our mystical tradition with G-d's lovingkindness (chesed), one of the highest and most exalted of the Divine Attributes (Sefirot). The earth, which often serves as a dam and limitation to the water's generous overflow, symbolizes G-d's stern judgment (Din or Gevurah).
During the judgment period of the festivals of the Hebrew month of Tishrei, we are petitioning the Almighty to allow His lovingkindness to overcome His stern judgment; indeed, it is in this spirit that we conclude our festivals with Sh'mini Atzeret, on which we pray for G-d?s life-giving rain, His waters of purity and vitality. The aravah may not look, taste or smell very impressively, but for the mystical tradition, it represents the zenith of the four species. And when we use it to smite the earth, we are merely acting out our desire for G-d's lovingkindness to vanquish His stern judgment.
Now we can understand why the great Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Bereditchev would specifically invite the aravah-Jews into his sukkah. Most people are not what they make themselves appear to be, or even how others perceive them to be. Society often takes on the external form of a masquerade party, in which - when the masks are taken off - almost everyone is surprised to see the real person under the mask. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak especially valued the aravah: for what it could become and even for what it actually was, albeit hidden from the public eye.
And even if the aravah-Jew truly proved to be without learning and without deeds, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak would still have wanted him as an honored sukkah guest.
"After all," he would say, "everything is relative. When I come to the true and eternal world, I myself would like a seat in the great sukkah of Leviathan, where father Abraham makes the blessings and Moses our teacher provides the Torah classes and King David sings the songs. The keeper of the gate may very well try to refuse me admission, seeing that throughout the generations there have been many more learned than I and more pious than I. My response will then be that in the merit of my having invited the aravah-Jew into my sukkah, I would like to have the merit of having a seat - even if it be at the very end - in the sukkah of Leviathan."