Rabbi Janet Marder

March 19, 2010

House Beautiful

Passover starts in ten days. I wouldn’t say that I’m getting ready for Passover yet. Instead, I am in that very important and necessary stage known as “thinking about getting ready for Passover.” What I’m thinking about this year, mostly, is stuff. Passover stuff.

We happen to have a lot of it around our house. We have a round black and white china Seder plate, very old, manufactured in London , an heirloom that came to us from my mother-in-law; it has all the 15 steps of the Seder illustrated around the perimeter. We have a beautiful ivory- colored Kos Eliyahu (Elijah’s cup) that was a gift from my mother and father. We have two matzah covers – one hand-painted silk, made by the elders at Lifeline for the Old in Jerusalem , one hand-painted cotton, made by one of our daughters when she was little. We’ve got our white festival tablecloth, inscribed with Hebrew letters saying “In honor of Shabbat and Yom Tov.”

We have many, many Haggadot (or Haggadahs, as we always called them when I was growing up) – some for kids, some for adults; Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox; a French one, a Spanish one, a Chinese one; one that I bought in 1975 in Hebron, its cover charred by fire; a 12-step Haggadah, a feminist Haggadah, a civil rights Haggadah, a peace Haggadah, a secular Haggadah. We’ve got our glass Passover dishes that we use all through the holiday, and our Passover pots and pans, utensils and flatware. We’ve got a couple of plastic Passover placemats that we bought for our daughters when they were small, with cute little drawings of all the special things we do on the holiday.

In general I like a simple life and am not much interested in gadgets, but I am a big fan of Jewish stuff like this. I like to look at it and touch it and just have it around me. Jewish ritual objects are the spiritual furniture in my home – they’re tangible, concrete containers of the ideas and beliefs I cherish. They remind me who I am, where I came from, whom I love, whom I remember.

A while back I read a book called “Material Christianity.” It’s a study of the physical expression of religion – specifically, the way American Christians in the past two centuries surrounded themselves with objects and images that helped them experience their faith on a daily basis.

The opening photograph, taken in 1941, shows a black family in rural Virginia in their modest parlor, the interior of a pre-fab house built by the Farm Security Administration. The room is filled with traditional Christian iconography. Two neatly-dressed young children are standing beneath a framed portrait of the head of Christ wearing a crown of thorns. Their mother is seated at a small parlor organ, on which are displayed three gospel hymnals. On the walls are other biblical portraits, including a rendering of the holy family. The photograph is an eloquent expression of a family’s way of life, grounded in the teachings of their church.

Jewish theology is highly abstract -- there are no visual representations of God – but Judaism itself is deeply material. Our tradition abounds in physical objects that embody the Jewish way of life. One list I saw recently contained 66 items of ritual Judaica, all with varying degrees of sanctity.

Traditionally there are two categories of Jewish ritual objects: those that are inherently holy, and those that are necessary for the performance of a mitzvah but are not regarded as sacred. The first category, called “Tashmishey Kedusha” (accessories of holiness) includes objects which contain the name of God – such as a Torah scroll, tefilin, mezuzah klaf, (the parchment), a Megillah, prayer book, Bible or other holy book --  or objects which come into intimate contact with sacred texts, such as the appurtenances of a Torah scroll – the mantle which covers the scroll, the wimple or sash, breastplate, crowns and yad, the pointer used for reading.

Jewish law codes say that when tashmishey kedusha are no longer fit for use, they cannot be discarded in the usual way, but must be “put away” in a manner acknowledging their sanctity [Mishneh Torah, II, 10:3]. Ashkenazic Jews traditionally fulfill this requirement through burial, usually in a specific part of a Jewish cemetery. Sephardic Jews traditionally place worn-out tashmishey kedusha in a special room in the synagogue called a “geniza,” (from the Hebrew word meaning “to conceal” or “preserve”). The most famous of these, discovered in the Ezra Synagogue in Cairo in the late 19^th century, contained more than 200,000 Hebrew pages, some dating back to the synagogue’s founding in the 9^th century.

The second category of ritual objects, at a lower level of holiness, is called “tashmishey mitzvah,” (accessories which make it possible to perform a mitzvah). These include a wide range of ritual objects essential to Jewish life, such as Kiddush cups, Shabbat candlesticks, challah covers, matza covers, havdala spice boxes, seder plates, the Chanukah menorah, lulav, etrog, chuppah, shofar, tallit and kippah.

These objects need not be buried in a Jewish cemetery or stored in a geniza. Some, like the lulav and etrog, are perishable. Most are permanent, and are traditionally passed on, often for generations.

There’s also a third category, called “reshut”” (optional) – objects which are nice to have but are not essential to the performance of a mitzvah: things like a challah cutting board, magen david or chamsa charm, honey pots for Rosh Hashana, etrog containers for Sukkot, Purim greggers, dreydls and so on. My cute little Pesach placemats would fit into this category. So would the special blue and white ceramic matchbook cover we have, inscribed with the blessing for Shabbat candles.

Why in the world, you might wonder, would anyone create a matchbook cover for Shabbat? Why, for that matter, do we own a special little pewter plate for our challah, inscribed with the words “Hamotzi lechem min ha-aretz”?  Why not use ordinary matches and put the challah on a regular plate?

Certainly it’s ok to do that. But there’s a Jewish principle called “hiddur mitzvah” – beautifying the mitzvah. It’s derived from a verse in the Book of Exodus [15:2]: “This is my God and I will glorify Him.” Rabbi Ishmael, reading this verse, asked: How in the world is it possible for a human being to add glory to God? What could we possibly give to the Creator? Like most rabbis, he answered his own question, saying: “What this really means is: I shall glorify God in the way I perform mitzvot. I shall prepare before God a beautiful lulav, a beautiful sukkah, beautiful fringes (Tsitsit), and beautiful phylacteries (Tefilin)." [Midrash Mechilta, Shirata, chapter 3, ed. Lauterbach, p. 25.].

The Talmud [Shabbat 133b] adds to this list a beautiful Shofar and a beautiful Torah scroll, written by a skilled scribe with fine ink and fine pen and wrapped in beautiful silks.

The idea, then, is that when you do a mitzvah, you do it in a way that shows thought, care and aesthetic appreciation for the act you are performing. Sure, you could drink your Kiddush wine out of a Big Gulp mug from the 7-11. You could wrap yourself in a shmatteh when you pray, as long as it has fringes on the corners. You could cover your challah with a paper napkin or use an empty pickle jar as your tzedaka box. But if you want to fulfill the principle of hiddur mitzvah [enhancing the mitzvah] then you’ll think about how to perform this deed in a way that adds some beauty and elegance to the world.

Edmond Fleg, a French Jew, wrote these words to his son in 1927: “Sometimes, my child, when I wander through a museum, and stand before all the pictures and statues and furniture and armor,…the crystals, the mosaics, the garments and the finery, the coins and the jewels, gathered there, from every place and every age,….  I think that one or another of my ancestors may have seen, touched, handled, or admired one… of these things, in the very place where it was made, and at the very time when it was made, for the use, the labor, the pain, or the joy of men.”

I feel the way Edmond Fleg felt when I look upon the material culture of the Jewish people. Ritual objects from the past speak their own language, teaching me something about those who made and used these sacred implements. I imagine the hands that held them  -- hands of my ancestors; and through these objects, which I use as well, I am connected to their labor, their pain and their joy.

A 17^th century Megillah, the Scroll of Esther read on Purim, displayed in the Jewish Museum in London . The text is inscribed on ivory vellum, mounted on red silk, surrounded by lacy papercut illustrations of the Purim story. No one, seeing this exquisitely fashioned scroll, could dismiss Purim as a trivial children’s holiday. The artist who made it and the owner who treasured it teach us the power of this story that celebrates Jewish survival in the Diaspora and the buoyant spirit of laughter, sustaining us over the centuries.

A pewter washbasin, made in Germany in the year 1800, now found in the collection of Jacobo Furman of Chile . The basin was used for the ritual washing of hands before prayer. It depicts, in folk-art style, a barefoot priest, or Kohen, having his hands washed by a Levite attendant before he blesses the people, just as the ritual was performed in the ancient Jerusalem Temple . Above the men’s heads is a Hebrew phrase: “Belongs to the Levites, Feiel bat Yosef.” Around the perimeter is a Hebrew inscription from the Talmud: “Through the merits of righteous women were our forefathers redeemed from Egypt ” [Sota 11].

Instantly we are given a glimpse of someone’s life: this German woman, Feiel, daughter of Yosef – proud of her Levite ancestry, proud that she is descended from Miriam, the first Levite woman, who rescued baby Moses from death; proud that she continues this line of heroic Jewish women. Yet the other side of the basin sends a different message. It depicts a stag chased by a hunter and dog – a popular symbol used by medieval Jews to symbolize the Jewish people, pursued relentlessly by their enemies. Here, encoded in a small silvery bowl, is the inner world of the German Jew emerging into the modern world – persistent fear of destruction; enduring hope of redemption.

One more object: a page from the Golden Haggadah, written in Spain , probably Barcelona , in 1320, illustrated with superb miniature paintings in bright blue, red and white on a brilliant gold background. These paintings, created in a Catholic country, show significant Christian influence. One scene depicts Moses at the burning bush, conversing with a haloed angel; another shows Moses and his wife Tzipora carrying their baby son, riding a donkey as they journey to Egypt – an image clearly resembling the common scene of the Holy Family’s flight into Egypt.

This Haggadah seems to have reached Italy following the expulsion of the Jews from Spain 170 years after it was made. In 1603 it was presented by a Jewish bride named Rosa, daughter of Joav Gallico of Asti , to her groom, Eliah Rava. It is signed by three different censors in the 17^th century, and the birth of a son in the family is recorded in 1689. In 1865 it was acquired by the British Museum , where it resides today.

Think for a moment about this small volume, which survived not only the ravages of time and use, but the venom of the Inquisition, the burning of Hebrew books in the Papal states in the 16^th century, and the Church censors’ scrutiny and mutilation. The object itself is an eloquent tale of triumph and deliverance, testifying to the stubborn faith of those who brought it to their Seder table.

Tashmishey kedusha – accessories of holiness; tashmishey mitzvah – accessories required for the performance of our sacred obligations. Tallis and tefilin, kipot and candle sticks, haggadahs and megillas, mezuzahs and prayerbooks. Jewish spiritual equipment crafted with love and skill to beautify the mitzvah; preserved for generations with a sense of reverence for the values and teachings they embody.

What becomes of such objects when Jewish rituals are forgotten or abandoned by the families who inherit them? Will we cease to create beautiful Jewish books as information becomes digital rather than textual? Will we still cherish hands-on Judaica as we live increasingly in virtual reality – computer-simulated environments of our own making? In a world in which everything is disposable and replaceable, built to become obsolete in a flash, is there still room for things which are precious and sacred?

 This Pesach I will celebrate, along with our freedom, the joys of material Judaism – beautiful objects we can hold and touch; objects that come to us from the hands of our parents and grandparents; objects that speak to us of commitment and devotion.

This Pesach I’ll think about the special yarmulke my grandfather put on when he sat at the head of the table to lead us in the ritual feast, and the special green bowls that my grandmother used for her incredible matzah ball soup. I’ll think about all the gifts I received from them and the ones I hope will be at my children’s Seder tables one day. I’ll think about vessels of holiness and containers of memory, and about the physical treasures that make a house into a Jewish home.