Sukkot: The Universal Holiday

SUKKOT - A UNIVERSAL HOLIDAY?

Rabbi Ari Kahn

The Talmud relates that in the future, when the nations of the world will complain about the preferential status enjoyed by the Jews, God will explain that the Jews are the "Chosen People," because they alone are the "choosing people," so to speak; they alone accepted the burden of the commandments and chose to follow God's law.

The nations will then plead, ‘Offer us the Torah anew and we will follow it.’ ‘You foolish people,’ God will answer, ‘he who prepares on the Eve of Shabbat can eat on Shabbat, but he who made no preparations, what can he eat? Nevertheless, I have an easy commandment called sukkah, go and fulfill it….’ Why is it called an easy commandment? Because it has no expense. Immediately each one will build a sukkah on his roof but God will cause the sun to blaze as if it were the summer solstice. Each one will then kick his sukkah, and leave… Thereupon God will laugh, as it is said, [Tehilim 2:4] “He that sits in heaven and laughs.” (Talmud Bavli, Avoda Zara 3a)

Although this passage has many difficult elements, one of its main themes is of particular interest at this time of year: Non-Jews will be unable to keep the commandment of sukkah. This is a very strange idea, particularly because Sukkot, the festival also known as Tabernacles, is considered the most universal of all the holidays. The Talmud (Talmud Bavli, Sukkah 55b) teaches:

Rabbi Eliezer (another tradition reports “Elazar”) said, ‘Why are 70 offerings brought on Sukkot? For the (merit of the) 70 nations of the world.’

Rashi: To bring forgiveness for them (the 70 nations), so that rain shall fall all over the world.

The sages stressed that Sukkot has a universal element that is glaringly absent in the other festivals:  Pesach celebrates the exodus from Egypt and the emergence of the Jewish nation. Shavuot celebrates the giving of the Torah, specifically to the Jewish People.  It seems paradoxical, then, to find an expression of the inability of the nations of the world to relate to God specifically in the context of Sukkot.  We may theorize that specifically on Sukkot, when the Jews concern themselves with the welfare of the entire world, the other nations are expected to respond and to relate to God directly. There is, however, another passage which makes this approach untenable. 

And it shall come to pass, that every one that is left of all the nations who came up against Jerusalem, shall go up from year to year to worship the King, the God of Hosts, and to keep the holiday of Sukkot. And whoever does not come… to Jerusalem, ...upon them there will be no rain. (Zecharya 14:16)

This passage, from the prophecy of Zecharya, describes the aftermath of the apocalyptic battles that herald the messianic age when the vanquished nations will celebrate Sukkot.  How, then, can the Talmud suggest that the nations of the world will be given the commandment of Sukkot, but fail to fulfill this “easy” commandment? This Talmudic teaching seems to contradict the prophecy of Zecharya which describes their successful adherence to this precept in the future. While the Talmud contains many explanations of biblical teachings, the Talmud does not, as a rule, contradict biblical prophecy. Our question, then, is quite simple: How can the Talmud state that in the future the nations of the world will be unable to keep Sukkot, when the Prophet Zecharya tells us that they will, in fact, celebrate Sukkot?

In the resolution of this apparent contradiction lies the essence of Sukkot.

There are two distinct aspects to the holiday of Sukkot, represented by two commandments in the Torah:

On the 15^th of the 7^th month, when you have gathered the fruit of the land, you shall keep a feast to the Almighty seven days… And you shall take for yourselves on the first day the fruit of a hadar (etrog), branches of palm trees, aravot and haddasim, and you shall rejoice before your God seven days. And you shall keep it as a holiday seven days a year, it shall be a statute forever to celebrate. You shall sit in booths (sukkot) seven days, every citizen of Israel shall sit in the sukkot. In order to inform all generations that the Children of Israel dwelled in sukkot when I liberated them from Egypt. (Vayikra 23:39-43)

In this passage, we are given two distinct commandments: We are to take the four species and rejoice with them, and we are to sit in sukkot. The mitzvah of the four species is linked with “gathering the fruit of the land,” while sitting in the sukkah is a commemoration of a specific time in our national history, during the exodus from Egypt. The four species is an expression of the agricultural aspect of the holiday, which is universal, whereas the sukkah expresses our own unique national history, and is therefore particular to the Jews. 

Sukkot in Jerusalem

The relationship between the gathering of the fruit and the four species seems clear: After gathering the harvest from the fields, we collect these four species, and use them as a visual aid for prayer over the course of the festival: We thank God for the produce we have just harvested, and implore him to continue to sustain us with generous rainfall and economic security over the coming year. Rabbinic tradition teaches us that God allocates the world’s supply of water for the coming year on Sukkot:

On Chag (Sukkot) we are judged regarding water. (Talmud Bavli, Rosh HaShanah 16a)

In fact, much of the celebration in Jerusalem on Sukkot was connected to water, including the Simchat Beit HaShoeva ceremony, of which the Mishna says:

“Whoever did not see the Simchat Beit HaShoeva never saw real joy in their life.” (Sukkah, 5:1)

The commandment to take the four species speaks of rejoicing before God, referring to the Temple in Jerusalem. Sukkot was uniquely celebrated in Jerusalem: Armed with the four species, the Jews would make a pilgrimage to the Temple and pray for plentiful rainfall in the coming year.

Clouds or tents?

What, however, is the meaning of the other aspect of the festival, in which we are commanded to sit in sukkot? What do these booths symbolize? The Talmud records two opinions: According to Rabbi Eliezer, the sukkot we build are a representation of the Clouds of Glory with which God protected the Israelites in the wilderness. Rabbi Akiva, on the other hand, was of the opinion that when the Jews were liberated from Egypt, they dwelt in actual sukkot, booths, not unlike those we build today. Both opinions agree that the sukkot signify the special relationship between the Jewish People and the Almighty; the difference between the opinions lies in respect to the historical reality. Were we protected metaphysically, by a cloud, or were we protected by a physical construct- actual huts, sukkot?

This difference of opinion is unresolved; either way, we celebrate the festival and the unique, loving relationship that lies at its heart, by building sukkot. We remember that the Jews ventured into the wilderness, vulnerable to the elements, putting their faith in God. This is what we commemorate today, and it is a central part of the fulfillment of the mitzvah of sukkah to teach our children the lessons of ahavat Hashem and emunah (love of God and faith) that this holiday expresses. This is the essence of Sukkot: The Jew leaves the comfort of his home and turns this little hut, this makeshift dwelling, into his place of residence for the duration of the festival. This serves as a reminder of the temporary nature of our existence, helping us focus on the proper balance between the physical and the spiritual aspects of our lives. Most importantly, the sukkah is an expression of our trust in God - the trust that we had in the desert and the trust, it is hoped, we have today.

Now, perhaps we can resolve the inconsistencies in our Talmudic passage. There are two sides to the Festival of Sukkot: On the one hand, we pray for physical sustenance, for the plentiful rains and bountiful harvests that are a universal human need. Our physical needs are quite real, and nothing is as representative of these needs as rain; in fact, the Hebrew word for rain, “geshem,” is at the very root of the Hebrew word for physical reality, “gashmiyut.” For this very reason, we pray for rain specifically on Sukkot: Whereas on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur we pray for life itself, on Sukkot we pray for quality of life. We pray for the success of our economic undertakings; we pray for rain. On the other hand, we reject our physical comfort, and, in testimony to our special relationship of love and faith in God, we leave our physical needs behind. We remind ourselves that the source of our sustenance is beyond our physical realm, beyond our own human accomplishments or capabilities. The source of rain, the source of geshem, God Himself, is represented by the Clouds of Glory that protected and sustained us in our early history as a nation. 

With dialectical elegance, a synthesis is created: We are commanded to leave our homes, the physical anchor of our lives, and to enter a home under the clouds, protected by our trust in God. Our physical existence is brought into sharp contrast with our spiritual life, and the two aspects of Sukkot co-exist.

Now we may return to our original question:  Will the nations of the world be capable of observing the holiday of Sukkot? Surely, the answer must consider each aspect of the holiday independently. The passage in Zecharya that spoke of observance by non-Jews of Sukkot stressed that they would do so in Jerusalem - “before  God.” The aspect of Sukkot that finds unique expression in Jerusalem is the universal aspect of thanksgiving and the prayer for rain. In fact, the prophet Zecharya made this very clear: “And whoever does not come… to Jerusalem ... upon them, there will be no rain.” The focus of the pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the joyous prayers there was the physical, agricultural – and therefore universal - aspect of Sukkot, the blessing for rain. This aspect of Sukkot surely can be fulfilled by Jews and non-Jews alike: It is pragmatic. In essence, it is a recognition of cause and effect. The nations of the world will have no trouble performing this type of service.

However, the other aspect of Sukkot, the building of the sukkah, what the Talmud called a “simple Mitzvah,” is what the non-Jewish, and certainly the pagan religious experience, finds so foreign. Here there is no pragmatism, only trust, faith -- and love.

Go and cry in the ears of Jerusalem, saying, ‘Thus says God, I remember in your favor the devotion of your youth, your love as a bride, when you followed me into the wilderness, into land that was not sown.’ (Yirmiyahu 2:2)

The sukkah is testimony to that love. Simply being “with God,” quite literally leaving our “comfort zone,” stepping away from our physical existence, even if only to a small degree, is a concept that is foreign to the pagan mindset. Pagan practice centers around commandments that are far more “difficult” to fulfill - commandments that involve sacrificing something precious in order to find favor with the gods. Conversely, the Talmudic passage with which we began reports that God offers them “a simple mitzvah,” an “easy mitzvah.” God asks for no sacrifice, no pain, no price to be paid. To the pagan mind, this type of commandment is bewildering: What is a God who asks for nothing? 

This same Talmudic passage points out the contrast between the Jewish and non-Jewish mindset:

But does not Rabba say whoever is uncomfortable is freed of the obligation of sukkah? (Talmud Bavli, Avoda Zara 3b)

A fundamental principle in the laws of sukkah is that anyone who is extremely uncomfortable in the sukkah is exempt; therefore, the non-Jews who find themselves in a hot sukkah are, technically, exempt from sitting in it. This is even more perplexing for the pagan mind: If a god asks for something difficult, are you exempt? The response of the non-Jews is to kick down the sukkah, as if to say, “Enough is enough. How can man be expected to relate to such a deity?”

This aspect of the festival is a uniquely Jewish experience: When we sit in the sukkah, we are living with God, remembering the days of our youth when we followed God like a lovesick bride - unquestioning, accepting, trusting.  This aspect of Sukkot cannot be enjoyed by the non-Jews who will, in Messianic times, seek equal treatment; they did not take that leap of faith. They did not make that unconditional commitment. They did not build or maintain that unique relationship; therefore, they are spiritually incapable of enjoying the sukkah, which is the physical manifestation of that relationship.  To our great joy and pleasure, we are invited to enjoy this unique and exclusive relationship with God each year, on the occasion of Sukkot. 

This essay is an excerpt from my book Emanations

audio shiurim on Teshuva and Yom Kippur

Here are some audio shiurim on Teshuva and Yom Kippur

Yom Kippur and Transcendence

http://www.yutorah.org/lectures/lecture.cfm/749091/Rabbi_Ari_Kahn/Yom_Kippur_and_Transcendence

Repercussion of Sin

http://www.yutorah.org/lectures/lecture.cfm/748720/Rabbi_Ari_Kahn/Repercussion_of_Sin

The Teshuva of Resh Lakish

http://www.yutorah.org/lectures/lecture.cfm/748186/Rabbi_Ari_Kahn/The_Teshuva_of_Resh_Lakish

The Ten Days of Teshuva
http://www.yutorah.org/lectures/lecture.cfm/764427/Rabbi_Ari_Kahn/The_Ten_Days_of_Teshuva

Teshuva; Personal Re-Creation
http://www.yutorah.org/lectures/lecture.cfm/764565/Rabbi_Ari_Kahn/Teshuva;_Personal_Re-Creation

Parshat KiTezei

Parshat KiTezei

2 Essays

http://arikahn.blogspot.com/2010/08/parshat-ki-tetzei-5570-of-love-and.html

http://arikahn.blogspot.com/2009/08/parshat-ki-teze-5769.html

4 audio Lectures:

http://rabbiarikahn.com/Audio.php?ID=72&Shiur=Parsha

http://rabbiarikahn.com/Audio.php?ID=73&Shiur=Parsha

http://rabbiarikahn.com/Audio.php?ID=74&Shiur=Parsha

http://rabbiarikahn.com/Audio.php?ID=75&Shiur=Parsha

Teshuva, Tefilah, Zedakah and Zechut Avot

Teshuva, Tefilah, Zedakah and Zechut Avot

(Repentance, Prayer, Charity and Ancestral Merit)

Rabbi Ari D. Kahn

This is a true story written with the permission and blessing of those involved.

The phone rang during the nine days leading up to Tisha Bav. This is normally a time of sadness and mourning, a poignant reminder that the Temple remains unbuilt and the world unredeemed. The present climate in Israel makes matters even worse: ringing phones cause unease. With this combination of the political quagmire and the calendric situation, the last thing I expected was good news.

The voice at the other end of the phone was an old friend of my wife's family, calling from America to tell us that she was engaged to be married. This was wonderful news; this woman had passed her 35th birthday, and she had begun to doubt whether she would ever marry.

After the requisite "mazel tov" came the more important questions: "Who?" "Where?"

"When? It was here that the intrigue began:

"Well, the wedding will be as soon as possible."

"Basically we want to elope, and we want to get married in Israel."

"Well, he is not really religious..."

While the first two answers had a certain logic to them, in view of the age and circumstances of the couple, the third seemed most confounding. This woman was raised in what is known as a "modern orthodox" home. At some point in her early adulthood, she had strayed somewhat from some of the beliefs of her youth, only to return subsequently with even greater dedication. The most difficult challenge she endured was the sudden death of her father when she was 15.

As an adult she became very active in the Jewish community and outreach, bringing a great many estranged Jews to Shabbat meals and other communal activities that introduced them to Judaism. By this point, she had been learning Torah regularly for quite some time, and had grown to be a leader in her community, known for her charitable activities, but more importantly for encouraging others to become similarly involved.

She was now exploring the possibility of my performing her wedding in Israel in less than two weeks, to a man who did not seem to share the same ideals. Was this simply the case of a woman whose biological clock was ticking so loudly that she could no longer think clearly?

The groom would be flying to Israel the following day, she said, and I would have the opportunity to meet him and speak to him. Only then would we continue our conversation. In the meantime, there were so many wedding arrangements to be organized; fortunately, countless friends materialized, all willing to help put together a wedding in less than two weeks.

A special ketubah was commissioned from a local artist; I needed to make sure that the names were written correctly, and it was only then that I asked his name. She said, "It is Landau and he is a Levi"

I said "Landau - a Levi? Could he be a descendant of Rav Yechezkel Landau"?

She asked "Who is that?" I answered, "One of the great Rabbis of the 18th century. His surname was Landau and he, too, was a Levi."

"I don't think there are any rabbis in his family, but he is a Levi."

With that the conversation came to an end.

I met him a few days later. He was everything she wasn't: She is a New Yorker, brought up on Long Island, he is a southern gentleman with a thick twang, developed over years in Memphis and Texas. Standing in front of me was a former United States Marine, who now teaches high school history, along with being a football and wrestling coach. He was polite, dignified, and he had passion. He had a deep understanding that Israel is "the Lord's Land" and that the Jews are "the Lord's People". These basic Jewish beliefs were engraved deep in his heart.

As a former Marine, he offered a number of suggestions for quickly and permanently solving the Middle East crisis; diplomacy was not among them. I found him engaging and interesting, yet I still was not convinced that this union was made in heaven.

We headed over to the offices of the Religious Council, where the marriage would need to be registered. We arrived at 12:06; the office apparently closed at 12:00. I went over to the gentleman in the booth, and explained that we needed to open a file for a wedding. "Impossible. The office is closed." "But the wedding is in less than 10 days," I said. He looked at me incredulously and said "Impossible. It takes at least two weeks for a file to be processed". After a minute of negotiations he sent me to Rabbi Ralbag, the man in charge, so that he could tell me officially that this was impossible. As far as I was concerned, we were on our way out.

We entered the office of the Rabbi, who recognized me, and I introduced my new friend. When Rabbi Ralbag heard the name Landau - he, too, said: "You could be from the family of the Noda B'Yehuda". I informed the Rabbi that Mr. Landau is a Levi, strengthening his assumption. Meanwhile, we opened up the envelope the groom had brought with him from the U.S.;  I had instructed them earlier to bring signed affidavits establishing their marital status and Jewishness in order to expedite the registration process. The groom produced a letter written by Rabbi Ephraim Greenblatt of Memphis, a well- known author and sage who was raised in Jerusalem, but traveled to America years ago to learn with Rav Moshe Feinstein and was sent to Memphis to lead the Jewish community there.

Rabbi Greenblatt wrote that he knew the family and in fact had attended the brit mila (circumcision) of the groom forty-one years ago. He then added that the reader should be aware that Mr. Landau is indeed a descendant of the Noda B'Yehuda - seven generations removed. Rabbi Ralbag and I looked at one another, appreciating the significance of his lineage, while the groom was somewhat nonchalant, not really appreciating the importance of his own lineage.

The file was quickly opened, and we were on our way. I suspected that I might have just witnessed a little intercession from above which helped open closed doors and, more impressively, subdue Israeli Bureaucracy.

I called the bride and I reported the progress we had made. I questioned her again, more closely, to make sure that she had really thought this decision through. She told me that he loves her, that he will care for her, that he is ready to make a commitment. So may of the men she met in NY who were her age had their eyes open only for younger women. So many had "commitment issues", or in their words, "enjoyed their 'freedom' ". She felt on a core level, on a soul level, that this was right. She felt that together they could build something great. She felt God had sent him her way. She felt that once in a Jewish environment, he would grow: He is interested and committed to growth, and he was sure from the day they met that they would marry - to him it was "fate".  She convinced me that this was "meant to be".

Who was I to argue? He was a man of sterling character, consistent, decent; he was a good man. What he lacked was merely a bit of outward religious trappings and some ritual behavior.  Our sages tell us that character is far more difficult to change than practice, yet I remained unsettled.

Before we hung up, I recalled the letter written by Rabbi Greenblatt, and informed her that indeed her soon-to-be-husband comes from a leading rabbinic family and that he is the seventh generation from the Noda B'Yehuda.

Again, she asked "Who is that?"

I responded "He was a leading Rabbi a little more than 200 years ago. While the Vilna Gaon sat and studied in Vilna this man was considered to be the greatest decider of Halacha of his time. He lived in Prague, and questions poured in from all over the world for his opinion. His full name was Rabbi Yechezkel ben Yehudah Landau (1713 -1793).

She said "wow".

A day later I get another call from the bride; this time she was far more excited. "You won't believe this," she gushed. She mentioned the Noda B'Yehuda connection to one of her closest friends, who responded by saying "Don't move". Her friend quickly went into the next room and brought back a photo album. There was a picture taken one year earlier. These two friends, both single, had decided to accompany Rebbitzen Esther Jungreiss to Prague, to pray at the graves of righteous Jews. The bride's friend held up one picture:  There was the bride, praying by the grave of Rav Yechezkal Landau, the famed Noda B'Yehuda, asking him to open some gates in heaven and help her find her "soul mate".

As she told me this, things finally became clear: She had traveled to the grave of the Noda B'Yehuda and asked to meet her soul mate. The Noda B'Yehuda apparently offered a "deal" - I will introduce you to my own great-great-great grandson on condition that you bring him a bit closer to our heritage.

The wedding was on the porch of the Aish HaTorah building overlooking the Kotel. The day was Tu B'av. Despite trying to "elope," a crowd of people would not let this wedding happen quietly. They boarded a plane and came to Israel, despite "the situation", in order to rejoice with bride and groom. As we were preparing the ketubah for signing, an elderly, distinguished-looking rabbi appeared; I looked up and introduced myself, and he identified himself as Rabbi Efraim Greenblatt. He was in Israel for a visit, and he felt he should attend the wedding. Soon other leading rabbis appeared: a Kabbalist appeared, soon a leading Chabad Rabbi, Simon Jacobson joined. We marched and danced both bride and groom to the chupah. The bride's father, as I mentioned earlier, passed away years ago, and her mother was unable to fly. The groom's parents were unable to make the wedding, but the bride and groom each had a brother accompany them, together with close friends.

There was a power to that wedding the likes of which I had never felt; perhaps the location helped, but there was something more. There was electricity in the air, the music was intense, people sang and sang as we prepared for the actual ceremony. The Shechinah could be felt. This wasn't just my subjective feeling; every person present I spoke to later told me "they felt something".

I know that her father was smiling down, watching his only daughter get married. He was a kind man, a charitable man. In fact, when Rebbetzen Jungreiss first started her "mission" 27 years ago, he was the first to hold a "parlor meeting" for her in order to raise much-needed funds.

But I am sure that there was another presence there: the spirit of the Noda B'Yehuda, Rabbi Yechezkal ben Yehudah Landau, looking down, enjoying this marriage - which was certainly arranged in heaven.

As Yom Kippur approaches I think back to that wedding. Our sages tell us that the happiest days in the calendar were Yom Kippur and Tu Bav: Yom Kippur was day of forgiveness and Tu Bav was a day of marriages. On both of these days people would dance in the streets.

This Yom Kippur we should all remember that we, too, have connections in heaven. Perhaps some of us have more famous ancestors than others, but we should remind ourselves that we are all descendants of Avraham and Sarah, Yitzchak and Rivkah, and Yaakov and Leah and Rachel. These are our ancestors. But more importantly, every time we say "Avinu Malkenu" we should remember that we have a Father in heaven who is capable of "pulling strings".

We all need to do some Teshuva, to improve at least one area of our lives. We need to give Tzdaka (and encourage others to do the same!) and we all need to call out to our Father in Heaven, who is capable of changing and liberating the entire world "in the blink of an eye", and of intervening in even the most intimate details of each individual's life.

He can even help two people find one another, and happiness.

Gmar Chatima Tova.

(c) Rabbi Ari D. Kahn

Amuka

According to R. Meir Wunder (book review of Or Hagalil – in Hatzofe 10 Av 5736 – cited in TMOAG page 688) the "custom" of traveling to Amuka looking for a Zivug is no older than 1953 – when a tour company responded to the pleas of a spinster – to find a special place to pray for a match.

The claim that Rav Yonatan ben Uziel is buried in Amuka can be found in a document 1000 years after his death – the veracity of this tradition has been challenged. This document was only revealed in the 20^th century as it had been in the Geniza in Cairo

The claim that Rav Yonatan ben Uziel was never married has no basis

The claim that he told people to pray at his grave apparently has no basis

I think the way it works is a lot of single people go there…

See http://shelomoalfassa.blogspot.com/2011/06/myth-of-praying-at-amuka-for-spouse-ben.html

See The Making of a Gadol Rabbi Nathan Kamenetsky volume one page 688-689 and footnotes

Halacha and the Internet

Halacha and the Internet

Rabbi Ari D. Kahn

While Jews, especially traditional ones, seem to have an aversion to the concept of evolution, halacha itself, the stuff of which Jewish observance is made, may be seen as evolving. We who accept that Torah is the Word of God, and that the Written and Oral Torah were given to us, through Moshe, are aware that, as new situations arise, halacha adapts – has always adapted -  in an evolutionary rather than a revolutionary fashion. 

At times, though, catalysts of more dramatic change present themselves: Cataclysms, especially those that cause massive population shifts, tend to impact halachic thinking and action in more discernable increments. Nonetheless, we may say that halacha is impacted and affected, rather than pointing to blatant, obvious "changes." Part of the impact is due to what and how people learn.[1]

Throughout Jewish history, catastrophe has often given rise to the perceived need to collect data, to preserve what runs the risk of being lost. Thus, after the destruction of the First Beit Hamikdash we find the canonization of Tanach. After the destruction of the Second Beit Hamikdash, the Bar Kochva rebellion and Hadrionic persecution, the Mishna emerged in an edited form. After a major earthquake destroyed the north of Israel, the Talmud Yerushalmi was edited. In the wake of the Spanish Inquisition, the Shulchan Oruch emerged. This reaction, which we may call "preservation as a means of self-preservation," is not always immediate, but the pattern of reactive codification and archiving is unmistakable.

This pattern may be evident in our own generation: In the aftermath of the Holocaust, countless collections of data have been published, books that gather and preserve what might otherwise be lost. The reaction to such large-scale tragedy and loss seems, once again, to be an urge to preserve, a self-preservation instinct translated into self-preservation of our heritage, our collective memory, our cumulative and accumulated knowledge. Creativity, it would seem, is spurred by a different type of atmosphere, one which encourages the individual to express himself and suggest new and bold ideas.

To be sure, these trends are not absolute, iron-clad rules: Every generation, even those living in the shadow of catastrophe, has had some chidush, some new and creative idea, alongside the compilations and collections. In fact, a careful look at the interplay of political and intellectual history indicates that the ebb and flow of originality and compilation is often independent of political or geo-political events: Sometimes it is not the catastrophic or the idyllic conditions which affect learning, but new realities or inventions that are the impetus for intellectual changes of focus. The most easily identified case in point is the advent of the printing press. Some scholars[2] go so far as to cite the invention of the printing press as the major factor in the delineation between the Rishonim and the Achronim: Precious books that had been painstakingly copied by hand suddenly became available and accessible, making what had once been  rare and treasured texts commonplace. This same technological advance actually changed the way we think and the way we learn, shifting the process of learning away from the teacher and toward the information stored and disseminated in books. Ironically, the wealth of information made available to ever-increasing numbers of readers by the printing press was, in some ways, a double-edged sword, as it engendered a weakening of the mesorah[3] and sacrificed quality of understanding for quantity of information.

In our generation, the access to books and information is unparalleled, and the collections in individual homes are often staggering compared to the meager offerings of the libraries of yesteryear.[4] But there is another factor in the information explosion, a factor far more powerful and far-reaching: the computer. Today's personal computer can contain many more books, as well as search programs that allow almost instant access to more information, than most of the greatest of rabbis and poskim ever saw. Today's compilers and collectors of information will have more data at their fingertips than scholars of previous generations could have imagined, and the challenge will often be what not to include rather than the search for relevant sources. Today, learning requires a modified set of skills: those who learn with the aid of computers and search programs must be skilled at triage, whereas the ability to identify and access sources has become passé.

As has been lamented by some, in this generation more and more books appear about more and more obscure laws, blessings and customs. The endless data evolves into a peculiar genre of halachic writing that tends to be stringent in its conclusions, especially when written in English. If leniencies can be found, more often than not they are buried in footnotes, often written only in Hebrew. As a result, only scholars have unfettered access to leniencies, while the layperson will be guided toward strict or even overly-strict opinions. The ever-growing number of books of this ilk is clearly at least partially responsible for the growing radicalism in observance, adding fuel to the sociological engine that powers the increasing tendency to adopt strict[5] opinions as mainstream practice.[6]

There is another facet of the personal computing revolution that has become a significant factor in changing the way halacha is learned, transmitted, and observed, one that also provides mindboggling quantities of information: the internet. Traditionally, searching for halachic guidance has meant earnestly learning the relevant sugya in the Gemara and Rishonim and then consulting the  siman or  s'if in the Shulchan Aruch, relevant responsa literature and later authorities; today, many people have increasingly begun to simply look where they have become accustomed to looking for all other information: on the internet. Instead of seeking the opinion of the Gadol Hador, we are the generation that turns to Google - Dor HaGoogle.

As in many other aspects of the "world wide web," the search for halacha is a mixed bag. While some sites have a plethora of quality classes, lectures and articles on all aspects of Jewish thought and law, there are many other sites that contain information of wildly divergent quality and reliability. In addition, all types of “discussions” may be found on blogs, where the banter is anonymous and participants feel free to hurl invectives, insults and even give “rulings” on matters of Jewish thought and practice. As often as not, the ideas and opinions expressed on blogs are not authoritative, or may be nothing more than one anonymous individual's opinion. Often, these blog discussions are illustrative of the confluence of several modern trends: A halachic discussion on the web may be nothing more than a cycle in which one blogger quotes an overly stringent ruling or opinion found in a modern English halachic compilation, and respondents express the almost inevitable backlash to the trend of creeping stringency. Even when bona fide halachic rulings are quoted, these were originally handed down regarding a particular, specific or even an extreme circumstance. Such opinions often pass as general and binding “halacha” in discussion blogs of this sort. The result is a type of discourse so devoid of seriousness as to be unparalleled in the annals of Jewish learning.

And yet, as bad as this phenomenon is for the halachic community and for the integrity of Jewish learning, it is far less insidious than some of the other uses to which bloggers put the internet. There is something even worse than this misguided but innocent give-and-take between those who quote overly-stringent popular halachic literature and those who respond and react out of frustration: There are others who use blog discussions and websites to advance their own revolutionary agendas, who seek to change the mesorah by changing what is meant by halacha or even the need for halacha. We may go so far as to say that the disconnection of the halachic process from personal contact between the layperson and his or her spiritual and halachic mentor has unleashed the forces that had previously been held at bay by this very personal connection: Individuals and groups that seek to undermine the evolutionary processes that have enabled Jewish communities to respond and adapt to changing realities have become empowered by the internet, to an unprecedented degree. While these forces have existed in and around the halachic process for thousands of years, the counterbalance of direct contact with spiritual leaders has been replaced by equal and open access to a cold, impersonal computer screen that communicates specious ideas to vulnerable, isolated Jews.

Has the internet created a new epoch in Jewish history? Time will tell if the impact is of the same magnitude as the invention of the printing press, but there is at least one lesson to be learned from the Twentieth Century: Information cannot be suppressed. Rabbis, teachers and poskim must be prepared to lead and to teach laypeople who have more information than ever before - even if few may actually properly understand this information within the context of Jewish law and tradition. Religious leadership in the Twenty-First Century (and beyond) must take responsibility for capitalizing on the wealth of information available to all their students and followers, and create a new generation of learning with its own particular strengths. Today's Torah scholars are neither Rishonim nor Achronim; the learning of Slobodka and Volozhin is a memory, as is the psak of Rav Moshe Feinstein and Rav Henkin. Will the glut of information usher in an age of greater superficiality, or will it allow halachic minds, freed from the more mundane tasks of collecting source material, to reach new heights of creativity? Will the information explosion create a new watershed moment in Jewish intellectual history, akin to the line drawn between the Rishonim and Achronim? Will we be known as the generation of "Rav Google", a generation gorging itself on confusing or even useless information, or will we master the web and use it as a tool for deeper understanding?

As the masses turn to the internet for all manner of information, bona fide poskim or their proxies must create a web presence. Otherwise, random, renegade opinions - which to a great extent are the reaction to the overly simplistic, overly strict English language compilations of Jewish law - will have a deleterious impact on Jewish practice. Today’s generation will increasingly look on line; the question is, what will they find?

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[1] See Hayim Soloveitchik, "Rupture And Reconstruction: The Transformation of Contemporary Orthodoxy." Tradition, Vol. 28, No. 4 (Summer 1994) http://www.lookstein.org/links/orthodoxy.htm

[2] See Shlomo Zalman Havlin: על 'החתימה הספרותית' כיסוד החלוקה לתקופות בהלכה","

 מחקרים בספרות התלמודית; יום עיון לרגל מלאת שמונים שנה לשאול ליברמן, ירושלים תשמ"ג עמ' 192-148 

[3] See Shlomo Zalman Havlin, "Bein Rishonim Lachronim B'inyanei Nusach"

http://www.daat.ac.il/daat/toshba/mechkar/nusach.htm

[4] Once when I was studying with Rabbi Yosef Dov Soloveitchik he went through a list of sefarim he had in his home growing up- quite a limited list indeed. He added that precisely because they had so few books, they learned everything in each book.

[5] Often, rulings which are deemed “strict” are not strict at all, rather the perception is due to ignorance or lax practices of previous generations – generations deprived of education by the ravages of war and persecution, exile and deprivation.

[6] There are certainly other factors as well: The baal teshuvah phenomenon which has, on the one hand, invigorated the observant community, while on the other hand it is a community generally devoid of masorah and lacking any mimetic tradition. This community necessarily embraces the written word, and is a major consumer of English language halachic literature. This is coupled with a psychological need of many among the newly observant to adopt extreme positions, perhaps as some type of "penance" for past behavior.

Another factor is the increasing acceptance by Diaspora communities of the customs of Israel, or more precisely the rulings of Israeli poskim from Bnei Braq and Yerushalayim. These customs are often the product of a society that consciously adopted stringent rulings which deviated from the rules of psak that had traditionally been accepted in the Diaspora. The motivation of these more stringent poskim of Eretz Yisrael was the notion that in order to “deserve” to settle the Land of Israel one should go beyond the letter of the law.