On Sukkot morning, I was one of several members of the RRC community who journeyed to City Hall, to daven (pray) shacharit in the sukkah erected at the site of Occupy Philadelphia. There, in a sea of tents and other temporary structures erected by local activists and homeless Philadelphians, we waved the lulav in accordance with the mitzvah (commandment) and sang hoshanot for social justice (including this excellent prayer written by Rabbi Ezra Weinberg). While assembling, we encountered Rabbi Mordechai Liebling dressed in a white suit and bearing a lulav. He was on his way to a meeting at City Hall, during which he would shake the lulav before officials to warn them against the dangers of hydrofracking, a hazardous method of fossil-fuel extraction.
The sukkah at Occupy Philadelphia (photo courtesy Rachel Playe)
While these may seem like strange or inappropriate applications of the mitzvah to wave the lulav, I would argue that they are consistent with the teaching of Rabbi David Abudirham, a Spanish rishon of the 14th century. He contends that the lulav serves as the flag of the Jewish people; to wave it is to declare a symbolic victory over oppression and to claim territory as our own. By this logic, Rabbi Liebling’s decision to incorporate the lulav into his expression of dissent at City Hall makes perfect sense. Likewise, by waving the lulav in the sukkah at Occupy Philadelphia, we were reiterating our collective claim to the city’s public spaces. At Occupy Wall Street and elsewhere, the call-and-response refrain of “Whose streets? Our streets!” has served as a rallying cry with which the disenfranchised and disaffected can express their demands for ownership of the commons and access to the systems of government. In this way, our lulavim were silent yet salient statements of solidarity with the occupation.
Of course, Rabbi Abudirham’s is not the only explanation of the lulav‘s significance. The midrash offers several interpretations of the arba’ah minim, the Four Species. Notably, in Vayikra Rabbah, the Sages relate each of the species to a particular type of Jewish personality: The etrog (citron), which has both taste and fragrance, represents the ideal Jew who both possesses a knowledge of Torah and practices good deeds. The lulav (date palm frond), which has taste but no fragrance, is akin to the Jew who knows Torah but lacks good deeds. Conversely, the hadas (myrtle bough) has fragrance but no taste, like the Jew who practices good deeds but lacks a knowledge of Torah. Finally the aravah (willow branch), which offers neither fragrance nor taste, embodies the unfortunate Jew who eschews both Torah study and good deeds.
The Arba'ah Minim (Four Species)
By binding the arba’ah minim to one another we express our refusal to reject those among us who lack Jewish knowledge or meaningful practice. We are committed to the belief that by increasing the contact between different types of Jews—and by extension all people—a richer combination of tastes and fragrances will result, imbuing each individual with a hint of another’s finest features. The midrash seems to suggest that the best way to educate others and cultivate meaningful practice is simply through contact with individuals of different types and backgrounds. Just as each of the arba’ah minim is said to represent a different ecological region of the Land of Israel, so too does the mingling of individuals from different backgrounds enrich the collective good. In the words of the midrash, one who fulfills the mitzvah of the lulav with this proper intention “brings about peace and harmony among Jews, as well as a greater nearness between God and Israel.” I would expand the frame of reference to include all people.
The lulav is special in that it manages to unify diverse species into a cohesive unit, without stripping them of their unique identities and distinguishing features. The lulav is an ideal balance between one and many, between the individual and the collective. Contrast this with the fascis, which means “bundle” in Latin. Consisting of uniformly sized and shaped birch rods that were tied together along with an axe blade, the fascis served as a symbol of power and authority in ancient Rome. The lictors who attended Roman magistrates carried fasces not merely for show but to execute criminals. In time, the fascis came to symbolize the Roman Republic in much the same way that flags represent countries today.
Emblem of the Italian National Fascist Party, featuring the fascis
One stick may be weak, but a bundle of identical sticks cannot be broken. The clear message embedded in the fascis is that power depends upon unity, and unity emerges from uniformity. It should come as no surprise that the Latin fascis is the root of the word “fascism.” Indeed, Mussolini’s National Fascist Party (1921-1943) adopted the fascis and displayed it prominently on its flag and emblem. In short, the fascis can be seen as the opposite of the lulav, just as it symbolizes everything that Occupy Philadelphia has vowed to combat and defeat.
This understanding of the fascis and its connection with authoritarian ideologies and movements only underscores the beautiful message encoded in the lulav. Each time we wave the lulav this Sukkot, may we reflect on the beauty that emerges from diversity and dialogue. As we enter the final days of the festival, may we appreciate that we, like the arba’ah minim, have come together from a variety of locations and backgrounds, with different degrees and styles of knowledge and practice. In binding ourselves together, may we learn from, support and enrich one another without ever losing our own unique attributes. And by fulfilling the mitzvah of the lulav—both real and symbolic—may we help bring about peace and harmony among all people, and closeness between the Divine and humankind.
