Jewish Contemplatives: Nachman of Breslov

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Solitude in Jewish Contemplative Practice

In the tractate of the Mishnah known as the “Ethics of the Fathers”, we are strongly advised “not to separate ourselves from the community” (Pirkei Avos 2:5). Anyone attempting to lead a Jewish solitary life has to come to terms with this directive, yet there have always been Jews who have felt inspired to make solitary lives of prayer and study their main spiritual discipline and a major part of their contribution to the life of the Community of Israel.

If you consult a modern Hebrew dictionary, you will discover that the word for solitude is “b’didut”. In Jewish mystical theology the related term “hitbodedut” (often transliterated as “hisbodedus”) has been used for centuries to denote interior and exterior seclusion for contemplative prayer and meditation. Despite this history, a non-Jewish observer might find it hard to see evidence of physical or spiritual solitude in Jewish practice—and many Jews might even declare that there is no place for it in Judaism at all. In this short essay I hope to shine a little positive light on that gloomy misconception.

The two main reasons for the apparent dearth of solitary practice in Judaism are its insistent focus on communal activity and its objections to life-long celibacy. Judaism does not generally encourage physical withdrawal from society, it encourages the pursuit of justice and mercy through social action. Judaism does not encourage monastic celibacy as a way of expressing devotion, dedication, or as a spiritual technique. Instead, Judaism regards procreation (Genesis 1:28) and the education of children by the family unit (Deuteronomy 6:7) to be positive mitzvos—commandments to be observed. It also insists that communal liturgical prayer is the ideal form of Jewish worship, and it makes the presence of a minyan (ten worshippers) the condition for many full liturgical usages in order to assert this directive somewhat forcefully.

Nevertheless, if we look at the lives of Jews with a leaning towards meditation, contemplation, and meticulous religious observance we may find surprising and highly significant anomalies in the practice of religious solitude. I am not merely referring to fringe pietist groups or minority eccentrics here, but towering figures like Moses our Teacher, Elijah the prophet, Rabbi Isaac Luria the eminent kabbalist, and the Baal Shem Tov, founder of “modern” chassidism. These are not Jews on the fringe. They are the generators and exemplars of quintessential Jewish spiritual practice.

What is even more remarkable—given the usually universally observed commandment to procreate—there are even Tzaddikim who have practiced celibacy as an exceptional form of Jewish spiritual dedication. Examples of lifelong celibates in Judaism include the prophets Elijah and Elisha (see Zohar Chadash 2,1; Midrash Mishlei 30; and Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer 33), as well as the Talmudic sage Rabbi Simeon Ben Azzai (see the Bavli tractate Yevamot 63b and also the remarks on religious celibacy in the Shulchan Aruch, Even ha-Ezer 1:4).

Moses and Elijah were both advocates of religious solitude by example. Moses spent two very long retreats on top of Mount Sinai in deep solitude. He also left his wife and family behind and lived in celibacy for many years. Elijah appears to have been unmarried and childless yet, in a sense, his progeny are the contemplative Jews in each era. In every generation, each contemplative Jew follows Elijah into the cave of solitude to refine his/her spiritual attentiveness to the inner voice of the divine, and our tradition declares Elijah to be the archetypal mentor of those blessed to receive the gift of “his” mystical instruction. To be “under the mantle of Elijah” is to receive a profound contemplative awareness—a change in perspective— which is brought about by God’s inspiration.

When Moses went “into the Cloud” (Exodus 24:18), it was for a solitary retreat of forty days. Elijah’s encounter with the “still small voice” in the cave on Horeb (I Kings 19:9-18) was the climactic event which concluded a long solitary journey of forty days (I Kings 19:8). This was a biblical “zen walking meditation” par excellence. These experiences were not the biblical equivalent of a short “weekend retreat”. They were significantly long periods of isolated meditation intended, I would suggest, as models for future Jewish practice.

The giving of the Torah at Sinai was a unique religious event in that it was not an individual but a communal revelation. All of Israel experienced this event and yet, in a sense, the Torah was received by each individual in their own heart—in a spiritual solitude which is deeper than any mere physical solitude ever could be. It is “solitude within a crowd” and it is reflected each and every day in the traditional Jewish liturgy. Each communal service has periods where congregation members recite the central prayer of eighteen blessings (the Shemoneh Esreh) silently. At this and at other times during communal worship, they pray in secluded privacy under their tallisim ( prayer shawls), often at their own pace while absorbed in a text on the pages of their own prayer-book. They are worshipping in community, yet praying alone in interior solitude.

Elijah was only able to hear the “still small voice” when he had ignored the hustle and bustle of normal existence. The earthquake, and the wind, and the fire of our frenetic business and social lives can sometimes obscure a call to experience a deeper level of daat (religious encounter) or a more profound revelation of God’s will (ratzon). The messages of the “still small voice” are often the very ones which we are trying to avoid confronting, receiving, or putting into practice ourselves. Perhaps it is in a combination of external and internal solitude that we can best be aware of this tiny and hidden spark of inspiration (ruach ha-kodesh). Elijah was a Jewish mover and shaker, for certain—but even he went on a retreat. His is a Jewish example of religious solitude which many Jews ignore.

In chapter thirteen of his manual for Jewish pietists (Sefer Ha Maspik, in Rabbi Wincelberg’s English translation, “The Guide to Serving God”), Rabbi Abraham Maimonides (1186-1237) considers the biblical use of solitary meditation and suggests that we might follow the examples of Isaac meditating in the field (Genesis 24:63); of Moses on Mount Sinai (Exodus 34:3) and in his “Tent of Meeting” outside the camp” (Exodus 33:7); and Joshua during his long retreat there ( Exodus 33:11). He also gives us one of the most comprehensive definitions of Jewish solitary practice in existence when he writes:

“Outward retreat (hisbodedus) might be total, such as to separate from the city to isolate oneself in deserts, mountains, or other uninhabited places. It might be partial, such as to isolate oneself in houses. It might be frequent, or occasional, for long periods, or for short periods. But it is impossible in this world for one to retreat for an entire lifetime.”

(from the “Sefer HaMaspik” Chapter 13 trans Rabbi Yaakov Wincelberg in “Guide to Serving God” p 495)

Rabbi Abraham’s definition holds good for every Jewish solitary from the biblical era to the present day.

It is worth noting that attempts to incorporate solitude into Jewish life have most often been a case of a single Jew practicing a temporary hermit lifestyle rather than the communal monastic one. Christian solitaries have usually chosen to live as anchorites (confined in a building); as hermits (living in physical solitude); or as communal but eremitical monks ( sharing some aspects of religious life but spending the majority of time in isolation in a cell). Yet even these forms were not without some representation in Jewish practice. For example Rabbi Chaim Vital (1542-1620) writes when speaking of the “early saints” (chassidim rishonim) mentioned in the Talmud:

“These individuals would travel to rocky caves and deserts, secluded from the affairs of society. Some would seclude themselves in their homes, as isolated as those who went into the deserts. Day and night, they would continuously praise their Creator, repeating the words of the Torah, and chanting the Psalms, which gladden the heart.”

From “Sha’arey Kedushah” trans Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan on p94 of “Meditation and Kabbalah.”

There is, however, one notable example of a Jewish “communal eremitic monasticism”: the Order of the Therapeutae. The sole surviving historical source for knowledge of this Jewish religious order is Philo’s “De Vita Contemplativa” written early in the First Century C.E. (A.D.) Some scholars suggest that the community must have been formed of elderly “retired parents” and temporarily dedicated young pre-nuptual assistants. They were each secluded in a small hermitage with a private garden and prayer room with the cells grouped around a communal building, rather like the arrangement used by the Carthusian monks of the Christian religion. Each of the “communal hermits” of the Jewish monastic order of Therapeutae (both female and male) lived in solitude during the first six days of the week, but on the Sabbath, the entire community would gather for communal meals and services.

By combining Sabbath assembly with weekday solitude, perhaps the Therapeutae were attempting to reconcile the need for community observance with the countervailing impulse to lead solitary contemplative lives. It was this “Sabbath/weekday compromise” that was most often taken up by those later kabbalists and chassidim who felt particularly drawn to solitary practice— though almost exclusively in a solitary eremitical rather than a monastic form.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907-1972) writes:

“As a young man, Rabbi Yitzhak Luria, the founder of the Lurianic Kabbalah, removed to the banks of the Nile. For seven years he secluded himself in meditation, visiting his family only on the Sabbath, speaking seldom and then only in Hebrew, which was not commonly spoken in his time. Chassidic lore tells us that as a young man the Baal Shem Tov spent many years alone in the Carpathian Mountains.

Solitude was a common practice among mystically inclined Jews. Even the non-mystical Jewish writers of the Middle Ages seemed to agree that solitary living was indispensable to the attainment of spiritual purity. This view may be found in the writings of Abraham Ibn Ezra, Maimonides, Badarshi, Falaquera, Gersonides, Albo, Crescas, and Abravanel among others.”

(from “A Passion for Truth” p 214, Rabbi A.J.Heschel)

The subject of that essay, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk (1787-1859), spent no less than nineteen years secluded in a single room adjacent to his shul, only venturing out when called to the reading of the Torah. Rabbi Joseph Horwitz of Novhardok (1848-1919) spent eighteen months as a “Jewish anchorite” in solitary retreat in a room with a bricked-up door and holes in the wall for delivering his food. He agreed to marry, but only on condition that he be allowed to spend all the weekdays in solitude in a forest hermitage. He lived like that permanently for twelve years. In the Breslov community, kabbalist-ascetic Reb Avraham ben Reb Nachman Chazan (1849-1917) also spent his weekdays in solitude in the woods outside Uman for many years, returning home each week only on the Sabbath.

But these, one must admit, are exceptional examples of an extreme practice of seclusion. In many ways, the more typically Jewish use of solitude as a religious discipline is one which is practiced in comparatively short retreats, or in regular periods of secluded meditation whose duration is measured in just hours, or even minutes. Rabbi Abraham Abulafia (1240-1291) writes:

“Choose a special place for yourself where your voice will not be heard. Meditate alone with no-one else present. If you engage in this by day do so in a darkened room. It is best if you do this at night.”

(“Chayei Olam HaBah,” trans. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in “Meditation and Kabbalah,” p. 107)

The same practice is recommended by Rabbi Chayim Vital (1542-1620):

“You should be in a room by yourself...It should be a place where you will not be distracted by the sound of human voices or the chirping of birds. The best time to do this is shortly after midnight”

(“Shaarei Kedushah,” trans. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in “Meditation and Kabbalah,” p. 197)

The practice of such solitary prayer is especially dear to the followers of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov (1772-1811) who used the word hisbodedus to denote a form of informal prayer in solitude to be practiced on a daily basis by Jews of every type and spiritual capability. Here are three short examples of his advice on this:

“It would be good if we could spend our entire day in hitbodedut. However, not everyone is capable of this. Therefore, we should spend at least one hour each day alone, meditating and speaking to God.

However, if a person's heart is strong, and he wishes to accept upon himself the yoke of Divine service, in truth he should aspire to practice hitbodedut all day long. Thus, our Sages declared: "Would that a person could pray all day long!” (Berakhot 21a)”

(Likutey Moharan 11, 96, trans. Rabbi David Sears in “The Tree that Stands beyond Space,” p. 78)

“It is also necessary that you should meditate in an isolated place. It should be outside the city, or on a lonely street, or some other place where other people are not found. (...) You must therefore be alone, at night, on an isolated path where people are not usually found. Go there and meditate.”

(Likutey Moharan I, 52, trans. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in “Meditation and Kabbalah,” p. 310)

“Hitbodedut meditation is the best and the highest level of worship. Set aside an hour or more each day to mediate, in the fields or in a room, pouring out your thoughts to God .... Every person can express his own thoughts, each according to his own level. You should be very careful with this practice, accustoming yourself to do it at a set time each day.”

(Likutey Moharan II, 25, trans. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in “Meditation and Kabbalah,” p. 309)

In his Sefer HaMaspik, Rabbi Abraham Maimonides tells us that the “great sages” (gedolim) used to pronounce the following blessing:

“May God enable you to feel companionship in solitude and loneliness in a crowd”

(op.cit. p 529)

This is perhaps the most perfect Jewish way to practice the spiritual discipline of solitude. Most contemplative Jews do not seek withdrawal from society for too long, yet they all appreciate that physical solitude is often necessary for spiritual health and growth. A contemplative Jew is like Jacob in Genesis 35: He is one who wrestles with both God and Humanity in the privacy of his own heart. But in that solitary struggle he is not simply a “Jacob,” an individual in solitude. He is also “Israel,” - a spiritually generative and essential part of his greater religious community. As Rabbi Moses Cordovero (1522-1570) writes:

“All Israel is related one to the other, for their souls are united, and in each soul there is a portion of all the others.”

("Tomer Devorah" 4:6)

When Jews practice solitude as a spiritual discipline, they take the Community of Israel with them into their own personal “desert”—they have not withdrawn from Jewish or global society at all, but have chosen a particularly deep form of spiritual engagement with them. Their seclusion and solitude is not a form of self-regard or a method of character development because, above all else, they cleave to the Solitary One in order to become useful as conduits of His Light. Whether physically isolated or not, they have withdrawn into the cave of the heart—and from there they hope to draw down the compassion of the God of Israel on all creation.

© Nachman Davies

January 1 2012
(re-posted September 3 2013)

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For those interested in a more advanced study and practice of “hitbodedut”, I highly recommend the online archive of classical Jewish texts to be found on the website “Solitude-Hisbodedus” which can be accessed HERE.

The Communal Prayer of the Solitary (April 2013)

Parshas Ahare Mos describes the detailed instructions for the liturgy of the High Priest on Yom Kippur, the Day for Atonement. Parshas Kedoshim speaks of the ways we are enjoined to “love our neighbour as ourselves” (Leviticus 19:18). The two are, not surprisingly, very closely related: The ritual act of atonement consists in the three steps of (i)praying for oneself;(ii)praying for one’s near ones; and (iii) praying for the wider community (Leviticus 16:17). This process begins with a prayer for oneself but then moves on to two further prayers for others. The first flows into the other two because that first self-focused prayer exists primarily to make our subsequent prayers for the community acceptable.

Prayer is one of the deepest and most selfless forms of caring for others that we are privileged to exercise as human partners in the Divine Plan.

It is a hidden activity which does not draw attention to the ego and which can be exercised not just by Leviim and Kohanim, but by anyone with a good and pure intention. Such profound and atoning prayer may be performed in physical solitude or in the midst of a congregation— It is a paradox of Jewish prayer that it is always communal and (at its most profound) always a matter of an individual’s intimate communion with G-d.

When it is performed in solitude one never prays “outside” the community, and when one prays in the company of other daveners, the real “business” takes place in the sanctuary of one’s own heart. In Parshas Ahare Mos we read the instructions for the High Priest on Yom Kippur:

“And there shall be no man in the tent of meeting when he goes in to make atonement for the holy place, until he comes out after having made atonement for himself,and for his household, and for all the assembly of Israel.” (Leviticus 16:17)

Though the vast majority of halakhic commentaries on the liturgy place communal prayer in a firm position of superiority over individual prayer, and though the strictest and most physical conception of “minyan” is the one which has prevailed to this day—the fact remains that the principal prayer in our principal liturgical ceremony, on our most holy day is performed by a single individual in clearly commanded isolation.

He enters and prays alone, but (as his vestments underline) the High Priest takes the whole community on his shoulders and bears them on his heart. So do we if we bind ourselves to the whole Community of Israel and to those we pray for.

We may pray alone, but if our prayer is to be true—we never pray without this awareness of the community. It is for this reason (according to Rebbe Nachman of Breslov) that the Arizal recommended that one begin the daily services with the declaration.

“Hareini mekabel ‘alai mitsvat asei shel ve-ahavta le-re’akha kamokha”

(I hereby accept upon myself the positive commandment to love one’s fellow as oneself.)

If we pray with and in the community— we are remembering that our solitary prayers are always for the benefit of all. We too can stand before the ark in that place of solitary pleading and encounter if G-d should choose that we might be admitted. We are not high priests and yet we are invited to stand in The Presence whenever we enter into liturgical or contemplative prayer with a whole heart—with burning deveykus and the intention to draw close our G-d.

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev said that the sincere person in prayer was in that very “place” and that such a person’s upheld hands were like the wings of the keruvim above the ark.

Before davening, we bind ourselves in hiskashrus to the merits of those greater than ourselves in the hope that we may ourselves be elevated. Thus strengthened, our prayers may be of more use to those for whom we pray, and for those who may need our assistance. In this context, it is said that Rebbe Mikhal of Zlotchov used to begin his davening with the prayer:

"I join myself to all of Israel,

to those who are more than I,that through them I may rise-

and to those who are less than I,

so that they may rise through my thought."

(M.Buber "Tales of the Hasidim" p150)

In such a broad community of saints and sinners, we are never alone in prayer and we have a duty to make our contemplative lives an activity of community-focused chesed and atonement worthy of one such as Aharon the High Priest.

NRDavies

April 18 2013

Lag B'Omer and Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai (May 2012)

Lag B’Omer is intimately related to the memory of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai. Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai is intimately connected to the Jewish contemplative tradition, especially where it involves solitude and seclusion. In 2008, I published an essay on this website to celebrate Lag B’Omer and as that is now a good while ago, I have decided to repost some of it here today with a few editorial additions:

The Holy Fire of Shimon Bar Yochai

Graphic: N.R.Davies 1994

Though Lag B’Omer is a festival with disputed origins, by far and away its most celebrated form is as a commemoration of the Yahrzeit (anniversary of death) of the Venerable Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai. He is the 2nd century “Superhero” of Jewish Mysticism and a sort of honorary patron saint of Jewish contemplatives and kabbalists, especially since the Zohar was written in his name.

This year (2012), Lag B’Omer falls on Thursday May 10^th and though it might seem odd to celebrate a death with what can only be described as a Very Big Party Indeed, we have it on good authority that Bar Yochai ordered it to be this way himself. Many describe his death as a “marriage of heaven and earth”. Nothing to be sad about at all.

No other personage in Judaism has a whole day of feasting and festivity devoted to their passing (though perhaps the Moroccan Maimuna festival for Maimonides’ father comes close). At Meron in Israel, sheep will be slaughtered and roasted, there are bonfires and torches galore, and a mass picnic takes place around his tomb. ( There are two interesting video-clips of the celebrations at Meron HERE and HERE )

The "Torch" graphic which heads this essay is a scan of an illustration which I made in November 1994 in my personal prayer book for Leil Shabbos. I was not (and am not) proud of the rudimentary and childish calligraphy….but it’s the thought that counts, and my intentions were good. The text is a hymn in honour of Shimon bar Yochai written by a Spanish Jew, Shimon ibn Lavi in the sixteenth century. The chorus reads “Bar Yochai, Happy are You, For you were anointed with the holy oil of joy”.

You can see the Hebrew text HERE and there is a beautiful new translation of this piyut with a commentary (both by Rabbi Dovid Sears) HERE .

Some commentators on the song think that the text refers to the anointing of kings, but the more common view is that the song is comparing Bar Yohai to the high priest. There are several references to items of priestly clothing in the song, so this seems most likely.

The Sefardic melody to which this text is often sung is incidentally my favourite piece of Jewish music. Here is version of it which I notated in May 2007.

(RIGHT-click on the graphic to open in a new window and see it clearly)

In kabbalistic texts, Bar Yochai is often called by the Aramaic name “Butsina Kadisha”….the Holy Light. For this reason (and others) the torch has become one of his symbols. There is fire and flame everywhere in his life-story. For example, the story is told that on leaving the cave for the first time, his ferocious gaze set things and people ablaze….and then there is the story that his deathbed was surrounded by fire. (some say that this is the origin of the custom to encircle his tomb with bonfires.)

The precise connection between Bar Yochai and Lag B’Omer is disputed. Some say it was the day he left the seclusion of his cave, some say it was the day of his ordination by Rabbi Akiva, some say it was the day of his death. Some say all three. Judaism is nothing if not a religion where differing opinions can flourish and co-exist. Indeed, the usual answer to an unresolved Theological or legal disagreement is a statement that both opinions are right. Perhaps this is because their exact meaning had been misconstrued. The Talmud frequently concludes with a statement that one of the two opinions seems to have been accepted as the “norm” if not the “absolutely correct.”

Rabbi Shimon and this website

The issue which permeates my “Kuntres M'arat Ha-Lev” (and indeed this entire blog) is the question “What value does a contemplative life-style have within the community of Israel?”. It was Shimon Bar Yochai who, as it were, started the debate on this in the tractate Shabbat33a-b.

Its format (heavily simplified) was as follows.

* Rabbi Yishmael states that we have a duty to engage in worldly occupations.

* Rabbi Shimon sates that if we are too occupied with our work-load we will have no time for Torah study.

* As the arguments develop, Rabbi Shimon is understood to be putting forth the view that the obligation to study Torah overrides the importance of earning a living.

Centuries of commentary and discussion follow... but ultimately, apart from the statement from Abaye that.

* many have followed the opinion of Rabbi Yishmael and have been successful

* others have followed R.Shimon Bar Yohai and they have not been successful.

The issue remains open to this day.....

Though some think that Moses Ben Maimon (Maimonides) may have been advocating an intentionally dedicated life-style of Torah study and prayer in the following passage:

“Why did [the tribe of] Levi not merit an inheritance in the land of Israel and a share in the spoils of war together with its brothers? Because it was set aside to worship God, to teach His direct ways and His righteous judgments to the public ... Therefore, they were set aside from the ways of the world: they did not wage war like the rest of Israel and they did not inherit the land ... Rather, they are the army of the Lord, ………..

The tribe of Levi is not alone [in this]. Rather, every single person of those who live in the world,
* whose spirit has gratefully welled up,
* and who has comprehended in his mind
* to be separated
* and to stand before God,
* to serve Him,
* to worship Him,
* and to know Him;
* who has walked in the straight path that God has intended for him;
* and who has shed from his neck the yoke of the many accountings that humans make [of one another]

-- this person has become holy [like] the holy of holies, and God will be his portion and inheritance forever and ever. Such a person will have sufficient in this world, as did the priests and levites, as David, may he rest in peace, said, "The Lord is my portion of inheritance and my cup; You sustain my destiny" (Ps. 16:5).”

Mishne Torah in Hilkhot Shemitta ve-Yovel 13:12-13

(from Prof.David.R.Blumenthal’s website HERE )

Those who would join the school of Shimon Bar Yochai and attempt to live Jewish Contemplative lifestyles are always going to be few in number. No doubt much smaller in proportion to the world Jewish community than the tribe of Levi was to the entire nation. But then size isn’t everything: “a little Yud” can change worlds.

Postscript

In that essay I wrote of the intimate connection between Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai and the Jewish Contemplative tradition. There is also an especially “intimate connection” between Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai and Rebbe Nachman of Breslov. This year the Breslov Research Institute has very kindly made a free booklet available for the use of those who wish to celebrate this special day with appropriate prayers and reflections. You can download it HERE.

An annotated translation of Reb Noson's supplication in the merit of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai can also been found on the Breslov Center website HERE.

Finally, for those readers who are visiting this page on Lag B’Omer itself. Perhaps you would like to use the following few thoughts as “pegs” in your hisbodedus on this special day. They are aspects of the story which might shed light our own personal situation and progress while we are engaged in solitary discussion with HaShem:

-Part of the Lag B'Omer story relates to the way Shimon Bar Yohai copes with his fear of the Romans (and perhaps his internal fears which are expressed in rage).

-Part of it concerns the way a contemplative learns to rely on Providence (the carob tree and the spring).

-Part of it concerns developing the knack of knowing what our true target is (the lessons of secluded retreat followed by an attempted return to society to test the transformation).

-All of it is about the way Prayer/Torah study guides our aim.

A very Happy Lag B'Omer

-To all who visit this website;

-To all Jewish Contemplatives who would drink from the Nachal Novea of Bar Yochai's stream;

-And to all the Worlds it feeds.

May 9 2012

Contemplative Roots and Branches - (February 2012)

(Photo: Sorelle White)

On the “Fifth Day” of the tale called “The Seven Beggars”, Rebbe Nachman of Breslov tells us of a “Tree that stands beyond Space”. This image has many overlapping and layered meanings in Breslov, many of which are explored by Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in his translation of the Tales. These include (among many others) the concepts of the Garden of Eden, the role of the Tzaddik, the symbolism of the Temple, and the Gathering of the Exiles. But to me—more than anything—"The Tree that stands beyond Space" is an image which highlights the “Place” of encounter between the contemplative and the Divine as being a state “located” in the One who is HaMakom, the only true place.

When we are engaged in contemplative study and prayer we are “taken out of” this world and “re-located” in the Heart of all worlds. We may be under our tallit or seated in solitude on a park bench. We may be sitting on a bus with our eyes closed or digging in a garden with our minds engaged in a wordless communication with the Creator. We are "nowhere" because we have entered the Holy of Holies which is beyond measurement or geography. And yet we have located ourselves at the root of the Tree of Life. Its branches are the performance of the mitzvot. Their function is to bring the rising sap to the four corners of the world, and to bear fruit beyond the limits of our individual consciousness in whatever way God may desire.

I am writing this on Tu B’Shvat—the festival of the New Year for Trees. Recently, I came across an extract from a liturgical poem which appears in the Dead Sea Scrolls. It is called the “Parable of the Trees” and it reads:

“One day the Trees of Life will put forth a shoot which will become the Everlasting Plant, for they take root before they grow and extend their roots toward the stream.

And the Plant will open its stem to the living waters and will become an everlasting source of blessing.

But now all the Well-Watered Trees tower over it,

For they grow as soon as they are planted,

But their roots do not extend towards the stream.

And the trees that will one day put forth the holy shoot of the plant of truth-

These trees are hidden away;

Their secret is sealed, it is not valued, it is not known.

For You O God have hedged in its fruit on every side

With the mystery of angels, creatures of might, of holy spirits

And a whirling, flashing fire.”

(in Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse page 187)

Perhaps the Kabbalah tradition holds something of that guarded secret which the “Trees of Life” value. In his Sefer Ha-Rimmon, Moses de Leon quotes this midrash:

“Sleep is an unripe fruit of death

A dream is an unripe fruit of prophecy.

The globe of the sun is an unripe fruit of the Original Light.

The Sabbath is an unripe fruit of the World-to-come.

Torah is an unripe fruit of Supernal Wisdom.”

(Bereshit Rabbah 17:5)

and then he makes the following commentary:

Look! The root of Torah is supernal wisdom-hidden and concealed, perceived only through its wondrous pathways. How wondrous are the offshoots! But since the root is wisdom, who can ever reach it. That is why Israel’s sweet singer sang: Open my eyes, so I can see wonders out of your Torah!”

(Trans. D.C.Matt in Essential Kabbalah p.145)

This reminds me of a favourite extract from Rav Avraham Kook:

“One of the ways of studying Torah for its own sake, is with the intent to enrich the Jewish People with great spiritual powers. The more the light of Torah, its love and respect, increase in the heart of one Jew, the stronger and more powerful becomes the nation. The individual soul of this person becomes enhanced and more whole, and sends forth branches and roots .”

( Lightsof Torah. Chapter 2 )

Whether we celebrate a Tsfat-style seder for the festival of Tu B'Shvat or not –we can all make it a day of contemplative study of the Tree of Life, the Torah which is written on our heart.

Nor is this something which is confined to this particular day. For "The Tree" which is beyond Space is also beyond Time. The Torah is given anew in every moment and we only need to "turn" towards it to show our desire to dwell on its branches or in its shade. There is a miracle here. Through no merit of our own, and by the unfathomable will of our God, we are capable of being "re-located" in the Heart of this Tree at any moment.

May our prayerful study “send forth branches and roots”.

Norman R.Davies

7^th February 2012

Solitude in Jewish Contemplative Practice - February 2012