One of the new projects that I’ve picked up over the last month is learning Mishnah, the terse legal code written down in the 3rd century that serves as the user’s manual of Judaism in the post Temple period.
I can’t say I started learning mishnayot with much forethought. Truth be told, ‘terse legal code’ is not the sexiest of taglines, at least for me. But I thought, well, I am in Jerusalem– a Semitic twist on when in Rome–I should learn something. But what?
The Talmud’s rigorous logical analysis still intimidates me. Midrash’s dense and highly intertextual narratives captivate me, but are hard to unpack without a teacher. So when my dear friend and former roommate Joanne asked me if I wanted to be her study partner to learn Mishnah Rosh Hashanah, I thought, ‘what the heck?” It’s short–five chapters, each about 8 mishnayot long. We move at a leisurely clip of about one chapter an hour, enjoying each other’s company and the late summer breeze in her verdant Baka backyard. True to our vision, we finish the Thursday before Rosh Hashanah.
Since then, I’ve continued learning some of Mishnah Yoma, the mishnayot that deal with Yom Kippur, and moved on to explore Mishnah Sukkot, another 5 chapter set which deals with the laws of Sukkot.
You might think, being a religious text and all, that the Mishnah is serious. Dry. Bland. I”ll be honest– I anticipated it would be about as engaging as a car manual.
But to my surprise, Mishnah Sukkot is really anything but, especially with a little imagination.
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A few old friends from different centuries sit in the back of a crowded bar. Several rounds have already been downed, and the mood is merry. One of them asks, “Guys, seriously, what exactly is a sukkah? Like, how do we define what is a sukkah, and what isn’t? Where exactly is the boundary between yes a sukkah and not a sukkah?”
A moment of silence as the group ponders the question. How far can a thing transform before it becomes something else? Deep. Someone orders another round, and kicks the discussion off with the low hanging fruit.
“It can’t be too tall–more than 20 cubits and it’s not really a sukkah anymore.”
Rabbi Judah disagrees–who cares how tall it is??!!– but the conversation moves on.
“Nor can it be too short. Gotta be at least 10 handbreaths,” someone pipes in.
And now, as a few of the guys finish their pints, the ‘how far can we take this’ discussion begins.
“How many walls does it have to have?”
“What’s the sun versus shade ratio?”
“What about if I put it up as a playhouse for my kids last summer?”
“What if it’s under a tree?”
I imagine a long pause, as the group is all thinking about the same thing, and then they all start speaking at the same time.
“What about between two trees? What about using a tree as a wall? What about using trees as two walls? What about on top of a tree?”
Laughter all around. And then we hear from the really quiet guy in the corner who doesn’t say much but when he does he gets everyone in stitches.
“What about a hollowed out haystack? What about a cone-shaped hut? What about on top of a wagon? Or on the deck of a ship? What about two sukkot, one atop of the other? What about….” he pauses for dramatic effect, “What about on the back of a camel?”
Clearly the Rabbis are going to comical extremes. Should you wonder if I am misreading the tone in the mishna, consider this gem, Sukkot 2:7…
“In the case of one whose head and most of his body were in the sukka and his table was in the house, Beit Shammai deem it unfit, and Beit Hillel deem it fit. Beit Hillel said to Beit Shammai: And wasn’t there an incident where the Elders of Beit Shammai and the Elders of Beit Hillel went to visit Rabbi Yoḥanan ben HaḤoranit and they found him such that he was sitting with his head and most of his body in the sukka and his table in the house, and they said nothing to him?
Even Beit Shammai did not object.
Beit Shammai said to them: Is there proof from there? That is not what happened; rather, they said to him: if you were accustomed to act in this manner, you have never fulfilled the mitzvah of sukkah in your life.”
I imagine Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai debating in this ludicrous image of Rabbi Yohanan ben Hahoranit, sitting with his head and most of his body outside in the sukkah, with his legs and feet still inside at the table. It’s as if they are turning to the reader, lifting their glasses and winking. I mean really, guys, come on……
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One could argue that these were all plausible scenarios that the Mishnaic redactors had to explore, but to me the levity leaps from the page. I hear the echo of one of our favorite children’s books in this ancient discussion.
“What can you do with a shoe? You can put it on your ear or wear it on your head or butter it like bread or use apple jam instead! What can you do with a hat? You can fill it up with pickles or with popcorn or with glue. An octopus could rest in it, a bird could build a nest in it, a turtle could be a guest in it. Or would a horse look best in it?”
What Can You Do with a Shoe? By by Beatrice de Regniers (Author), Maurice Sendak (Illustrator)
Now granted, in the Mishnah the rabbis are trying to define what a sukkah is, how far a sukkah can stretch and still be a sukkah, while in the children’s book (yes, one of the silliest prooftexts ever), the youthful protagonists are using a shoe and a hat to transport themselves to imagined universes. But are these two things so different?
To unpack this question, I turn to the book Homo Ludens, one of my father’s old favorites. Originally published in Dutch in 1938 by Dutch historian and cultural theorist Johan Huizinga, its thesis is that the defining feature of human culture is not technology, or morality, but play.
Huizinga identifies 5 characteristics that play must have (pp. 8-14):
- Play is free, is in fact freedom.
- Play is not “ordinary” or “real” life.
- Play is distinct from “ordinary” life both as to locality and duration.
- Play creates order, is order. Play demands order, absolute and supreme.
- Play is connected with no material interest, and no profit can be gained from it.
It seems like there’s a compelling case to be made that what the rabbis are doing, albeit a bit jovially, is setting forth the rules of play. Using Huizinga’s characteristics, would Sukkot classify as play?
Seems to me yes. We experience freedom by creating a reality that is not ordinary life, that is distinct from ordinary life by both locality and duration, with its own internal demands and creation of order, for no material reason at all.
This magic circle, or in our case, a magic box, transports us into an imagined universe very different from the space we usually inhabit. As Huizinga explains, this is exactly the “work” of play:
“All play moves and has its being within a play-ground marked off beforehand either materially or ideally, deliberately or as a matter of course. Just as there is no formal difference between play and ritual, so the ‘consecrated spot’ cannot be formally distinguished from the play-ground. The arena, the card-table, the magic circle, the temple, the stage, the screen, the tennis court, the court of justice, etc, are all in form and function play-grounds, i.e. forbidden spots, isolated, hedged round, hallowed, within which special rules obtain. All are temporary worlds within the ordinary world, dedicated to the performance of an act apart.”
With this in mind, I feel better equipped to explore the one topic that the mishnah, notably, ignores: why do we build a sukkah at all? What is it supposed to symbolize? What are we supposed to be commemorating with all these pop up shelters?
And even more so, how can Sukkot address the current conflation of wildfires, pandemic, abyss of national leadership, and economic despair?
The rabbis have defined the rules of the game: we have to move outside. Like any good childhood fort, we have to feel protected by the walls. But at the same time, our eyes must see–not imagine but actually see–the sky.
Yes, we should feel safe, even if we know the flimsy walls of the sukkah offer only symbolic protection. But equally important, we have to be able to dream beyond our current anxieties, to the expanse: the cerulean sky, the shifting clouds, the dazzling stars.
The point is, as in any good game, our experience is up to us. I can dwell on my vulnerability, or take strength in my resilience. I can wax nostalgic for years past or imagine the better days that will surely come. I can invite guests, real or imagined, to warm my heart and lift my spirit.
I can be afraid. But I can also go inside when it rains.
We are (this year more than most), wandering in the wilderness, frightened, unsure of what the future will hold. And yet our booths, flimsy as they are, keep us feeling safe and protected. What can you do, what can you do, what can you do with a sukkah?
Z’man Simchateinu. The time of our joy. It’s time to play.
Pomegranate Dreams 