The month of November this year lines up closely with Heshvan, the only month on the Hebrew calendar entirely devoid of Jewish holidays or special observances.
On the heels of Tishrei, our busiest month, it provides a welcome break and opportunity to regroup. It’s also a time to contemplate the larger question of what it means to lead a Jewish life. A hint at a central answer to this question is embedded within the structure of the Jewish calendar — and it has to do with justice.
Any serious Jewish pursuit of justice includes a yearning to identify with the needs of the other. It’s no coincidence that throughout the Torah, we have again and again some version of this verse from Exodus: “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt” (23:9).
Why this concern for someone not our own kin? Not even perhaps from our own people? Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggests it has to do with radical empathy.
“Why should you not hate the stranger? — asks the Torah. Because you once stood where he stands now. You know the heart of the stranger because you were once a stranger in the land of Egypt. … You must fight the hatred in your heart as I once fought the greatest ruler and the strongest empire in the ancient world on your behalf. I made you into the world’s archetypal strangers so that you would fight for the rights of strangers — for your own and those of others, wherever they are, whoever they are, whatever the color of their skin or the nature of their culture, because though they are not in your image — says G-d — they are nonetheless in Mine. There is only one reply strong enough to answer the question: Why should I not hate the stranger? Because the stranger is me” (“Loving the Stranger”).
The Torah reminds us to care about the undervalued and disenfranchised a full 36 times, but it is not merely within the text of our most sacred book we find this insistence. The Jewish calendar is another important resource. By positioning the two holidays most closely associated with the Exodus narrative exactly six months apart, the calendar ensures that we don’t travel more than half of any year without encountering this story. Moreover, these holidays, Passover and Sukkot, are two sides of the same coin, insisting on a holistic exploration of what it means to journey from slavery to freedom.
Rabbi Irving “Yitz” Greenberg views Judaism as an “exodus religion” with Passover celebrating the specific liberatory moment. But that doesn’t mean the moment is only about our past.
“The secret of the impact of the Exodus is that it does not present itself as ancient history, a one-time event. [By reenacting the Exodus, Passover] turns memory into moral dynamic. The experience of slavery that breaks and crushes slaves does not destroy free people. It evokes feelings of repulsion and determination to help others to escape that state” (“The Jewish Way,” pg. 65).
For its part, Sukkot, the holiday we celebrated during Tishrei, says Greenberg, is much more than an encore of Passover. “On Passover, Jews restage the great event of liberation. Sukkot celebrates the way of liberation — the march across a barren desert to freedom and the Promised Land. … The real achievement of freedom does not come in one day; there is no quick cure for slavery. … Sukkot commemorates the maturation of the Israelites, achieved not in crossing the Red Sea but in walking the long way to freedom. … Passover celebrates a brave departure through a festive meal. … Sukkot marks the hasty lunches and the endless wandering in the desert. … Passover celebrates a moment of pure triumph. Sukkot celebrates a seemingly endless forty-year journey. Passover is the holiday of faith; Sukkot is the holiday of faithfulness.” (“The Jewish Way,” pgs. 96-97)
Twice a year, at the center of two lunar months on the opposite sides of the calendar, we honor our Exodus imperative, the Jewish mandate to live not simply as free people but as freed people, liberated from slavery and countless moments of tyranny. This buoys us when we have experienced setbacks like today’s skyrocketing rates of antisemitism. But it also reminds us that freedom is iterative. We, ourselves, are always growing into our liberation. Doing so means we must also insist on freedom and justice for others. To be a Jew is to be a member of a nation set apart, not to reinforce our sense of estrangement but to demand we participate in building a more just society.
Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg is spiritual leader of Beth Am Synagogue in Reservoir Hill. This column and others also can be found on his blog, The Urban Rabbi.
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