From the heart of Jerusalem: The purpose of joy

Teaching in the old city of Jerusalem, one develops awareness for the different types of people that can wander in off the street. Many of the people who frequent the old alleyways of Jerusalem are incredible people with incredible stories. We once had a fellow wander in who was absolutely convinced that he was King David.

In fact, there is a specific mental disorder which affects some people who visit Jerusalem and have an intense spiritual experience, resulting in the conviction that they are prophets or the like, known as Jerusalem Syndrome.
One day, a few minutes after my class had begun, a fellow wandered in and sat down in the last remaining seat, right next to mine.
Something about him seemed a bit off, so I kept my eye on him, obviously not wanting to react in any way that might embarrass him, yet aware of a responsibility to the rest of the participants in the program, and their right to remain focused on the study and exploration they were pursuing. I soon noticed he was staring at my coffee mug, bringing his face really close to it, with what seemed like a mad look in his eye. Not wanting to break the flow of the class, I stood up as I spoke and gradually moved towards the other side of the room, figuring this way people wouldn’t notice him.
Then he did a really odd thing: he picked up my mug, half full of coffee, continuing to stare at it. Now that’s just not normal; you don’t pick up someone else’s cup of coffee, especially someone whom you’ve never met before…. And then he went too far, and, placing his lips over the edge of my mug, he took a sip of the coffee!
By this time, of course, no one was paying attention to my class anymore, so there was nothing left but to make light of it. “Enjoy!” I said, “Feel free to help yourself to more coffee in the back!”
Everyone laughed, and this fellow’s pleased look changed to one of embarrassment, as he seemed to come out of his reverie. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I just wanted to see if this was a coffee mug. I’ve never seen one before. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an idiot, I know what a coffee mug is,” he continued, “but I was born blind, and three days ago, they did experimental laser surgery on my left eye, and now I can see. So I decided to take some time to ‘see’ all the things I have seen, but never really seen!”
Can you imagine? Here I am thinking this fellow had completely lost it, but in truth, he was the sanest person in the room, because for that moment, he was in the process of appreciating the gift of sight. We are not really capable, most of us, of being in a constant state of appreciation for all the gifts we have in this world. In fact, if we really did succeed in maintaining that level of awe and joy, most probably no one else would be able to talk to us!
That may well be the theme of this week’s portion, Ki Tavo, which begins with a rather strange ceremony, proscribed to all of us as a ritual, which occurs once a year, beginning on the festival of Shavuot.
“And it shall be, when you come into the land, which Hashem your G-d has given you … And you shall take from all the first fruits … and place them in a basket, … And you shall come to the priest (Kohen) who will be in those days, and say to him …behold, I have brought the first of the fruits of the earth that you have given me, G-d, …And you shall rejoice in all the good Hashem your G-d has given you, and to your home (family), you, and the Levite, and the stranger amongst you.” (Devarim 26:1-11)
It is interesting to note that the final line of this treatise, which usually alludes to the theme and the point of the entire exercise, is somewhat unclear. Is the Torah promising us that when we finally arrive in the land of Israel; and see the first fruits, (i.e. the fruits of our labors), that then, finally, we will rejoice?
This does not seem to fit the meaning of the text. The Torah could have simply had Moshe promise the Jewish people that they will see the light at the end of the tunnel, and that there would come a day, when they would be able to harvest the first fruits of the land. However, the Torah gives us this ‘promise’ in the context of the speech every Jew was meant to make as they came up to Jerusalem, every year, with their first fruits. The idea is that when you reach that moment, then you must “…rejoice in all the good Hashem your G-d has given you….”
In fact, the Torah here is introducing a special commandment to rejoice in all the good we have been given.
But how can we be commanded to rejoice? Joy is a psychological state; you are either experiencing it, or you aren’t; but you certainly cannot be commanded to experience joy, can you? And further, why must we be commanded to rejoice in the first place?
After long months of toil and hard work, plowing the land and sowing the seeds, not to mention protecting the growing crops from both animals and insects on the one hand, and the elements on the other, the crops take root and the day finally comes when you realize you made it. And you bring the first of your fruits up to the Temple in what Maimonides describes (based on the Mishnah in Bikkurim) as an awesome celebration of song and joy. You need a commandment to rejoice? Would anyone of sound mind and soul not be full of joy?
True joy is experienced when the entire journey starts to make sense. When the Jewish people, after two thousand years of exile, of wandering the face of the globe, finally comes home to the land of Israel, we experience a deeply rooted joy, because joy is when it all starts to make sense. Joy is all about purpose. Just as a soldier must believe in his mission, we need to have a sense of purpose. And a Judaism devoid of purpose, and thus of joy, will not, indeed cannot last.

Rav Kook, in his famous article “Zaro’nim” (seedlings) asks why the beginning of redemption, as suggested by the return of the Jewish people to their ancient homeland, seems to have been brought about for the most part, by people who profess so little connection to their Jewish identity. And he suggests that for so long, we have been focusing on the body of Judaism (the laws and rituals), and neglecting its soul. In the shtetls of Europe, and in the great Yeshivot, the emphasis was often on the obligations and the particulars, neglecting the purpose and the meaning.
And make no mistake about it: a Judaism that is devoid of purpose cannot last. And if we do not find a way to fill our synagogues and our study halls with the sense of joy that comes with an imbuing of purpose, then all that we have built since the destruction of the Holocaust will, in the end, be for naught.
Maimonides makes this point in the laws of Sukkot (and why that holiday carries the special mitzvah of “Ve’Samachtah Be’Chagecha’” “And you shall rejoice on your festivals”), because precisely on the festival of Sukkot, which occurs when the harvest is completed, do we finally see the purpose of all that hard labor; a grain house full of wheat.
And the first fruits, which begin this period of recognition, are the opportunity to ignite this process. The Torah is not saying that because of the first fruits I am obligated to rejoice; rather it is suggesting that during this period of the year, when I have this opportunity to tap into the purpose of it all, I should rejoice in my newfound sense of purpose. In other words, while it is true that when I discover a sense of purpose it causes me to experience joy, I can go one step further: I can rejoice in the joy of having a sense of purpose.
Indeed, it is not accidental that this portion is always read in the weeks preceding Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Because the real mitzvah, or challenge here, is to reconnect with our purpose, with why we are here, and how we are meant to make a difference in this world.
Perhaps the idea of each Jew, with basket in hand, humbly coming up to Jerusalem, is meant to convey the idea, that, just like that fellow, exultant and in awe of the gift of sight that most of us take for granted, all of us have our own basket full of first fruits which we so often take for granted.
May Hashem bless us all, with the coming of a new year, with the wisdom to re-connect with all the fruits that we have to be thankful for, and may we be blessed with a renewed sense of purpose and joy in the year that lies ahead.

Rav Binny Freedman, Rosh Yeshivat Orayta in Jerusalem’s Old City is a Company Commander in the IDF reserves, and lives in Efrat with his wife Doreet and their four children.