Apples and Honey – How Do We Say Shana Tova This Year?
Paul Cézanne [France; 1839-1906] “Still Life With Apples.” 1890.
Rosh Hashana begins in sweetness. We dip apples into honey and wish our family and friends Shana tova umetukah – “[May you have] a good and sweet year.” But after October 7, how does it feel to automatically say “Shana Tova”? Hopeful? Facile? Inappropriate? Necessary?
In Judaism, the phrase “Shana Tova” and the accompanying ritual of apples and honey evokes a whole new consciousness about life, and creates opportunities and challenges. As the honey drips tantalizingly onto the apple, we might consider what we are doing when we give one another that blessing. Is it just a prelude to a sugar blast, or are we signaling what we want our lives to be? Let’s talk more about what it is that words can do.
Some words describe things—“the ball is blue—and others are affirmations, such as “that is a monkey.” But still others are what the English philosopher of language, J. L. Austin, called “speech acts”, that is, speeches that act or bring something into being. When a couple about to be married stand together, and the minister says, “I pronounce you husband and wife,” this is neither describing nor affirming. The minister’s words are making something happen.
Certain combinations of words, what Austin called performative statements, have great power; they can fashion a brand-new reality. Here are some of Austin’s examples of performatives:
'I do (take this woman to be my lawful wedded wife)' – as uttered in the course of the standard Christian marriage ceremony.
'I name this ship the "Queen Elizabeth"'
'I give and bequeath my watch to my brother' – as occurring in a will
'I bet you sixpence it will rain tomorrow'
One type of Austin’s speech acts is called commissives which—as the word implies—have the power of committing the speaker to a certain action or set of behaviors. You could say, “I promise to buy you a donut when I go out later,” or “I will never cheat on you with the receptionist at the Blue Bay motel ever again”. Speaking here is a form of committing; I promised that I will undertake a certain path of conduct, and there is an obligation to fulfill my words.
“Shana tova um’tukah” is both a performative and a commitment statement, so that when we say it, we aren’t just mumbling a feel-good cliché, we are invoking a speech that acts, promises and obligates, as if to say, `You want a good year? What are you going to do about it? How are you going to make that happen? What will you commit to in order to obtain that goodness?’
Just like the world, we too have a birthday one day a year. Is your birthday a cause for celebration or regret? We lie in wait, from birthday to birthday. And then the day comes, a mini death, 24 hours to endure the good wishes and enthusiastic notices of our age. We exist for a brief shining moment - a card or a phone call, and now of course, some social media recognition, a “like” in place of real love. Like waking from the dream of the rest of the year into the sharp glare of our magic date, we realize on our birthday - this is the real thing. We are older, it is undeniable, everyone who has wished us well has ironically confirmed this fact, unalterable now, and the path runs one way. And our life is still the same, we think. Still.
So, on Rosh Hashana another birthday is superimposed upon our own, the metaphysical anniversary that yields a new promise. What is created on this day is each one of us, the idea of us, the paradigm of who we really are and are meant to be. The you that you contemplate in the dark, that you practice in the mirror. It is we who are born on Rosh Hashana, or reborn if you will. In that vein, Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav suggests that Rosh Hashana is as much a transfer as some kind of coronation of God. Just as the world was once created, God now “hands it off” to us, as it were, to recreate ourselves and our outlook on living. In turn, we must experience the desire to make this birthday, this Rosh Hashana, different.
In the early 2000’s the term SBNR--Spiritual but not Religious--became quite popular. It alluded to a quiet revolution underway in how a substantial portion of Westerners had begun to define themselves. They wanted some kind of faith in their lives but not organized religion. Spirituality became a preferred term precisely because well…it was so imprecise. It could mean so many different things to different people.
The word was used in everything from book blurbs to identifying yourself on dating sites. You weren’t an atheist but neither were you a church or synagogue or mosque goer. You were looking for meaning not moralizing, inspiration not judgment, a welcome mat, not the sound of a door closing.
And all of those are good things. One dreams of faith communities as a beacon of hope, compassion, and love, and not the bearers of judgment and exclusion. And while I do not mind the word spiritual, and use it myself often, I am also struck by its limitations when it is not wedded to a more practical outer, directed sensibility. Without some kind of tangible container for the spiritual, the term can end up feeling a bit dreamy and even dilettantish.
Judaism’s philosophy of spirituality is to unite inner thoughts with a life of good action and concrete ethical obligations. And the meeting place in Judaism between the between the hidden and the palpable, is in ritual. Rituals, whether they are ceremonies of birth, practices surrounding death, celebrations of marriage or a good harvest, or just daily or weekly traditions, have been universally practiced in all cultures throughout history. The reason is clear. Human beings need a vessel for our longings and aspirations, our spiritual strivings. Rituals reveal in plain sight who we are and what we believe in.
The Jewish claim that ritual is one the central components in a spiritual life, was beautifully articulated by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel seventy years ago: “Spiritual aspirations are doomed to failure when we try to cultivate deeds at the expense of thoughts or thoughts at the expense of deeds. Is it the artist's inner vision or his wrestling with the stone that brings about a work of sculpture? Right living is like a work of art, the product of a vision and of a wrestling with concrete situations. Judaism is…averse to looking for meaning in life detached from doing. Its tendency is to make the ideas convertible into deeds, to endow the most sublime principle with bearing upon everyday conduct.”
In our rituals, Jews get to enact, each day, a life of meaning and purpose. Naturally, ritual without a spiritual basis or an underlying wisdom, soon becomes staid and irrelevant. Maintaining the balance between the inner and the outer, between the sculptor’s vision and her grappling with the stone, is a delicate enterprise. Symbols become anachronistic when they convey a world that no longer exists. Is dipping an apple in honey still a resonant spiritual activity; a nostalgic memory of childhood; a meaningless but tasty bauble?
Rosh Hashana may begin with apples and honey but it surely does not end there, for there is serious life changing work to do, as Joseph Campbell intimates:
“We must be willing to get rid of
the life we've planned, so as to have
the life that is waiting for us.
The old skin has to be shed
before the new one can come.
If we fix on the old, we get stuck.”
Shana Tova,
Elliott
[Because of Rosh Hashana, there will be only one further post this week, for paid subscribers, which will appear on Tuesday].
Further Reading
J.L. Austin, How To Do Things With Words, 1962
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, Between God and Man, 1959.
Joseph Campbell, Reflections on the Art of Living, 1991.