The first of the Jewish month of Tishrei (beginning tomorrow sunset) is the new year for the seasons and the civil calendar. It's the one where we listen to the shofar(ram's horn blasted in a series of long and short sounds) dip apples in honey, eat honey cake and all things sugary to ensure our year will be sweet, eat the head rather than the tail of the fish and bless on beetroot and pumpkin, and fruits like pomegranates and dates. We buy gifts for family members, but these mainly consist of kitchen implements (although this could just be the family I'm embedded in), such as expensive soup pans and boxed cutlery sets, so they don't count as real presents if you ask me. But the kitchen gets well-stocked, so, like, yay. I guess.
The fifteenth of Shevat, or Tu B'Shevat, (around February time) is new year for the trees. This means munching on basket platters full of dried fruit and nuts. Good for the digestive system, unless one goes too far.
The first of Nissan (March or April time) corresponds to the redemption from Egypt and the birth of the nation (rather than the state) of Israel. The Torah’s command that "this month is for you the beginning of the months, it shall be the first month of the year to you." This is honoured now by donating money to the poor in remembrance of the time flour was collected for them in days of yore, but I only learned this just now whilst doing in-depth research for this posting (I opened a book). I think I'm so busy cleaning for Pesach by then that I never noticed - Passover falls two weeks later, on the fifteenth of the month. All Jewish holidays fall on full moon with the exception of Rosh ha Shana, which falls on new moon, as every Jewish month begins with a slither of new moon grinning in a dark sky.
And the first of Elul (late August or September)is new year for the tithing of the cattle, which I don't think has any bearing on those who don't own a herd or two, and without a temple, even those who do have probably found a way around it that involves paying money to Arabs instead.
But Rosh ha Shana is a particularly special time. In my class tonight with the great Rabbi I learn with, we talked of the world being created by din , law. My Rabbi and teacher is incredibly clever and hence, at times, unfathomably obscure, so I'll do my best to summarise what he said in layperson's terms, for my sake as much as yours.
Basically, the Jewish people have a non-bridgeable gap between them and G-d that we do our best to narrow without conclusive success. On Rosh ha Shana, the day the entire world's fortunes for the coming year are judged, man cries to G-d using the shofar and the crying, like the tears of the angels in Abraham's near sacrifice of his son, brings out the hesed or kindness of G-d instead (hence the sheep that appeared in the thicket). Because of this outpouring of kindness, G-d's true essence, the din, becomes hidden, and thus further away from us than ever. So we're faced with the seeming paradox that by trying to get closer to G-d, by crying out to him on this day of judgement in our attempt and yearning to see Him in His truest essence, we actually cause Him to conceal Himself all the more.
This may be a confusing thing, but apparently it's not a bad thing. I bet if my Rabbi read this blog he'd yell, in his Lakeside accent: "NO! NO, No, no! That's NOT what I said!" but that's what I think he said, and so I won't show him this if you don't.
The point I liked best was that our way of connecting to G-d is through intellect, as although G-d has no attributes whatsoever that we can define or comprehend, the world was created through mental acts and thus there is a concept of a consciousness of some kind, even though I'm probably stitching myself up calling it that. What I recall of tonight's lecture, although I'll have to play it back on my likkle machine to make sure, was that the way man connects to G-d is through his intellect, and the Torah is THE way he can connect with the absolute yet indefineable consciousness of G-d.
The reason I love this is that I studied philosophy, and the philosophers of the last four hundred years weren't theologians, which means they denied, or at least questioned extremely critically, the existence of G-d. What led me to this land and this religion was my own searching, and that searching meant starting with nothing. I had no beliefs when I left university and England, not even in G-d, as philosophy annihilated everything that had ever been implanted and I was left completely scraped out from the inside. Then, in India, of all places, little by little I figured out what was and what wasn't. I don't consider the things I learned subjective: I consider them truths that are there to be discovered by all, but in order to discover them, you have to be prepared to give up everything and trust that the outcome of your searchings is, actually, the truth flashing in your face and not the result of too much LSD. The only way I could come close to what I was searching for was to come to this spot, where I could connect with the universal consciousness through my intellect - the same intellect that philosophy claims must, necessarily, refute the existence of any superior sentient being.
Which, in a nutshell, means I'm meant to be here. And I mean here, where I am, not here, where I live, although that must be part of it as well, I suppose.
So on this day, when we pray and cry to G-d that He close the gap between Him and us; that He bestow His judgement on the world with mercy and kindness (or we'll all be doomed, doomed! Ah ha ha!) what we're doing is entering into a wonderful paradox. It's the biggest game of hide and seek, ever. And like all worthy philosophers, I can't be completely satisfied nor feel absolutely alive unless what it is I face when I look inside myself at the close of this year, and what I find at the very crux of my search, is one Almighty paradox.
Shana Tova.
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