Rosh Hashanah you hear the shofar. Yom Kippur you fast. Sukkos you eat in the sukkah and you take the lulav-esrog. Simchas Torah, you have no mitzvah. Simchas Torah, the joy of the Torah -- the joy of this learning that takes a lifetime -- Simchas Torah has no learning.
At night, we take the Torah, but we don't read the Torah; we don't even unfurl it. Simchas Torah, we dance.
We dance with abandon, not looking at the clock, not trying to keep pace, not thinking if we'll be late for tomorrow. Just dancing. The dancing of Simchas Torah.
Elie Weisel wrote of the Jews dancing on the streets of Moscow during the 1950s. One night in the year, they had no fear. They were not Jews of Silence, they were Jews of Simchas Torah.
My uncle was burned by the Nazis, in a shul in Riga. He died singing the song of Simchas Torah.
As a kid, I remember Simchas Torah had a bigger turnout in my father's shul than Kol Nidre. I don't know if the gabbai's statistics bear me out on that, but a kid's perception counts, perhaps even more than accurate data.
Simchas Torah with the Rebbe.
Simchas Torah with the Rebbe there were more people in shul than the shul could possibly have held. It couldn't have happened, but it did. Ask the gabbai; he'll tell you it is so. So will the fire marshal. Special portable air conditioning units blasted in air through huge vents overhead. The Chassidim held on to their precious six inches each, and stood on whatever would give them a view, benches, chairs, and the uniquely Brooklyn phenomenon: metal milkcases. They made their appearance some weeks before Simchas Torah and disappeared shortly after. No grocer knew from where so many could have come or where they all disappeared. They were worth their weight in milkcases.
"Get off the milkcases!" someone whose view was blocked would shout.
"Aprop fun di milch-kestlach!" came the shouts in Yiddish.
"Tered achshav!" the Israelis demanded, while the French joined in with a plaintive "Pourquoi tu veu me bloque?"
Together, they would chant the Atah Hareisa verses; robust chanting, more football team chanting than religious music chanting. The crowds were by now sweating and beet-red. The Rebbe would make his way slowly down the aisle - a path to the middle of the shul protected on both sides by thick, strong tables to maintain a crowd that would have awed a World Cup crowd control deputy.
Normally, no Chossid would ever stop the Rebbe to talk, much less extend a hand to touch something the Rebbe was holding, but on Simchas Torah, well, it was Simchas Torah. They kissed the tiny Torah the Rebbe cradled in his arm. They beseeched his blessing: may we meet again next year; my father should recover quickly and dramatically; I should be successful in your holy work.
Slowly, the Rebbe came to the middle of the shul, a tiny area fortressed by tables, with crowds ascending, stadium-like, on all sides to the far reaches of the long room. There was a mad rush as everyone ensured their best spot, some impish chutzpanik tried to block the "Get off the milkbox!" guy behind him. "Okay I'll crouch. Can you see now, yes?" "If you pick your head up, I'll send you flying."
The Rebbe is surrounded by dozens of excited nine-year-old boys.
Ahhah aha ha ya aya ya.... - the wordless Simchas Torah niggun, which, in music books, rises to a crescendo. Tonight, it starts at a crescendo. All attention is now in the middle of the shul. The Rebbe is dancing, beaming, lifting the Torah as if an offering to the multitudes towering around him. The singing is boisterous, joyous, reverent. The type that takes all your emotions and stuns them. Only in hindsight can you feel how all your emotions sing such singing.
During the height of the dancing, I steal a glance around the room to catch a glimpse of the Rebbe in the eyes of the Chassidim. Sometimes, you see more when you don't look straight on.
Why did I write this piece about Simchas Torah with the Rebbe? Did I whet any appetites? I doubt it. Did I capture a mood, a scene? I don't think so. But could I have witnessed this, been a part of it, and said nothing?
Simchas Torah comes upon us. Again. We will dance. We will dance and we will sing in our shul and on our street. Our kids will dance. And they will remember.
At night, we take the Torah, but we don't read the Torah; we don't even unfurl it. Simchas Torah, we dance.
We dance with abandon, not looking at the clock, not trying to keep pace, not thinking if we'll be late for tomorrow. Just dancing. The dancing of Simchas Torah.
Elie Weisel wrote of the Jews dancing on the streets of Moscow during the 1950s. One night in the year, they had no fear. They were not Jews of Silence, they were Jews of Simchas Torah.
My uncle was burned by the Nazis, in a shul in Riga. He died singing the song of Simchas Torah.
As a kid, I remember Simchas Torah had a bigger turnout in my father's shul than Kol Nidre. I don't know if the gabbai's statistics bear me out on that, but a kid's perception counts, perhaps even more than accurate data.
Simchas Torah with the Rebbe.
Simchas Torah with the Rebbe there were more people in shul than the shul could possibly have held. It couldn't have happened, but it did. Ask the gabbai; he'll tell you it is so. So will the fire marshal. Special portable air conditioning units blasted in air through huge vents overhead. The Chassidim held on to their precious six inches each, and stood on whatever would give them a view, benches, chairs, and the uniquely Brooklyn phenomenon: metal milkcases. They made their appearance some weeks before Simchas Torah and disappeared shortly after. No grocer knew from where so many could have come or where they all disappeared. They were worth their weight in milkcases.
"Get off the milkcases!" someone whose view was blocked would shout.
"Aprop fun di milch-kestlach!" came the shouts in Yiddish.
"Tered achshav!" the Israelis demanded, while the French joined in with a plaintive "Pourquoi tu veu me bloque?"
Together, they would chant the Atah Hareisa verses; robust chanting, more football team chanting than religious music chanting. The crowds were by now sweating and beet-red. The Rebbe would make his way slowly down the aisle - a path to the middle of the shul protected on both sides by thick, strong tables to maintain a crowd that would have awed a World Cup crowd control deputy.
Normally, no Chossid would ever stop the Rebbe to talk, much less extend a hand to touch something the Rebbe was holding, but on Simchas Torah, well, it was Simchas Torah. They kissed the tiny Torah the Rebbe cradled in his arm. They beseeched his blessing: may we meet again next year; my father should recover quickly and dramatically; I should be successful in your holy work.
Slowly, the Rebbe came to the middle of the shul, a tiny area fortressed by tables, with crowds ascending, stadium-like, on all sides to the far reaches of the long room. There was a mad rush as everyone ensured their best spot, some impish chutzpanik tried to block the "Get off the milkbox!" guy behind him. "Okay I'll crouch. Can you see now, yes?" "If you pick your head up, I'll send you flying."
The Rebbe is surrounded by dozens of excited nine-year-old boys.
Ahhah aha ha ya aya ya.... - the wordless Simchas Torah niggun, which, in music books, rises to a crescendo. Tonight, it starts at a crescendo. All attention is now in the middle of the shul. The Rebbe is dancing, beaming, lifting the Torah as if an offering to the multitudes towering around him. The singing is boisterous, joyous, reverent. The type that takes all your emotions and stuns them. Only in hindsight can you feel how all your emotions sing such singing.
During the height of the dancing, I steal a glance around the room to catch a glimpse of the Rebbe in the eyes of the Chassidim. Sometimes, you see more when you don't look straight on.
Why did I write this piece about Simchas Torah with the Rebbe? Did I whet any appetites? I doubt it. Did I capture a mood, a scene? I don't think so. But could I have witnessed this, been a part of it, and said nothing?
Simchas Torah comes upon us. Again. We will dance. We will dance and we will sing in our shul and on our street. Our kids will dance. And they will remember.