In anticipation of Yom Kippur 5771, a Potzker tale
1001 Jewish Nights
The Potzker Rebbe (if he ever existed) taught the following (if it ever happened):
In the formative years of rabbinic Judaism, the schools of Shammai and Hillel were burdened with the task of directing the Jewish people onto the path of God’s vision for mankind.
Conflicts regularly arose between the two schools as to which tracks were true to the path, and like partners in a marital dispute, each school was sure it held the correct opinion. However, their shared love of Torah helped them to realize that they could both be right, and peace prevailed for the sake of a higher purpose.
Their world was Torah, and Torah was their world.
A non-Jew, hoping to bring order to the chaos of his personal world, heard of the reputations of these two schools, and decided to seek spiritual guidance from their heads.
He first presented himself to Shammai, who was busying himself in his trade of carpentry by building a stool.
“Please teach me the minimum I need to know to become a Jew. What are the core principles that come together to create a unity of purpose? Is your religion like the stool that you are creating, such that, if you remove one of its legs, the whole entity falls over and breaks? What is that leg?”
Being the carpenter that he was, Shammai did indeed see the world as a finely crafted but precariously balanced stool. The world, represented by the stool, only continued to exist because of mankind’s collective pursuit of the three legs of the stool: truth, justice and peace. The fragile balance of these three legs was dependent on a state of constant dynamic correction by their three feet: scholarly pursuit, humble worship and deeds rooted in compassion and understanding.
The somewhat hostile nature of the question posed by the potential convert seemed to indicate to Shammai an attitude that was ill-prepared to handle the nuances of the stool metaphor. His reluctance in answering the question was quickly superseded by a sudden realization that the stranger’s inquiry may have been motivated by a desire to somehow use the answer at a later juncture in time as ammunition against the Jewish people. Fueled by the paranoia that comes from living in dangerous times, Shammai chased the potential student away with the measuring stick that he had been using to cut the wood for the stool. Shammai thought that the symbolism involved in that action would give the gentleman something to ponder should he wish to make a second attempt at feeding his curiosity.
Disappointed but not discouraged, the next day the man sought out Hillel, who had a reputation for being more compassionate.
The stranger asked Hillel the same question.
“I would like to become a Jew. What is the one principle that I have to understand?”
Hillel looked the man straight in the eyes in order to assess the questioner’s sincerity. It appeared authentic
Hillel responded.
“Do not do unto others as you have just done unto me. Do you understand the pain that you can bring upon another by asking a bad question? There is one answer to your question. Go and learn how to ask questions.”
The stranger, having experienced the pained expression in Hillel’s eyes, understood the potential toll that a bad question could take, and made a commitment to become a master of the art of the question.
His name, you ask?
Yehuda ben Damah.
Never heard of him? Perhaps you are aware of his work. For example, he was the person who popularized the custom of answering a question with a question, a Jewish tradition that exists to this very day.
By the time he officially converted, Yehuda was recognized as a person who could capture the heart of any matter with a few simple questions. Some say that his simple but profound questioning purified his soul to a level that no other rabbi of his era ever matched.
Day after day, Yehuda sharpened his mental probe, until one sunny afternoon, he came upon what seemed to be the ultimate simple question that could serve as his companion throughout his life journeys.
“Where is it from?” he would inquire of all that was presented to him.
Yehuda loved tracing anything to its roots, whether it was an idea or a material object. At his Shabbat dinner table he would pick an item and trace it back to its origins, telling stories for hours on end about all of the components of the subject under consideration and the different types of people it may have met along the way, until ultimately, the question and answer became one.
The source?
The Source!
Iconoclastic by nature, people lovingly embraced this mischievous but penetrating question, and the man who introduced them to it. Whenever the rabbis of the day insisted on enforcing religious rituals, the people insisted on asking where the idea came from in the first place, and it wasn’t long before they simply reduced the process to singing the two word chant with the musical inflections and intonations Yehuda had taught them:
The source???
When they were convinced that the source of the rabbinic ruling was indeed the Source of All, the people praised the rabbis and the God who gave them the wisdom to ask questions.
Yehuda made a point of visiting both the schools of Shammai and Hillel on a regular basis to hone his skills and enlarge his base of knowledge. He was fascinated by their ability to agree to disagree on most issues, and studied the dynamics of how they managed the questions before them.
Each school saw brilliance in the other school’s arguments, and day after day strove to rise to the challenge of coming up with points to outshine the other. This process took an enormous toll on Hillel, Shammai, and their students, physically, mentally and at times emotionally.
It is said that in a low moment, Shammai thought to himself, “Better that Hillel was never born so that God’s vision, as I see it, can unfold smoothly.”
Hillel was once overheard mumbling to himself, “Better that I was never born, so that I would not have to suffer endless nights of sleeplessness trying to counter Shammai’s brilliant arguments, for a man needs his sleep. Without sleep, I am not myself, and if I am not myself, who am I?”
Once, in the heat of an argument with Hillel, Shammai blurted out, “Better if man had not been created.” Hillel did not realize that Shammai was referring to Hillel, and, according to the rules of engagement, accepted this argument as the opening question for a debate between the two schools.
Thus began a mental battle that went on for day after day, and for Hillel, night after night, for two and a half years.
In the end, both schools agreed with Shammai’s argument that it would have been better if God had not created man.
Upon further reflection, Hillel suspected that this declaration may be misunderstood over time, so he insisted that the statement be amended. Since there was no way of reversing God’s mistake in creating man, and since every human being, having been created in God’s image, was therefore also vulnerable to mistakes, Hillel made it clear in his amendment that it was incumbent upon each individual, when challenged with a decision, to carefully examine the deeds involved in the decision making process for potential errors, such as the error Hillel had made in agreeing to debate Shammai’s ill-conceived argument. Hillel regretted the fact that he engaged in debating a bad question, unsure as to why he had pursued a line of action that he would normally strongly advise others to avoid. It is said that when Hillel encountered Rabbi Yehuda after the compromise with Shammai had been publicly proclaimed, both men simultaneously avoided making eye contact in order to avoid inflicting unnecessary pain on the other, a pain that only a teacher and student can share.
Nevertheless, after 900 days, the issue had been resolved. At least that is what Hillel thought at the time, especially after Shammai had accepted his amendment. However, for the next 100 nights, he still had problems sleeping, frequently waking to the bitter aftertaste of the sour compromise that he had agreed to.
On day 1001, Hillel’s world changed.
It was on that day that the soul of Yehuda ben Damah was severed from its connection to its body.
Hillel witnessed the public execution of Rabbi Yehuda at the hands of his Roman torturers, a death so horrible, that the details are still unspeakable to this day.
That night, it is said that Rabbi Yehuda visited Hillel in a dream. Yehuda taught his teacher that God was delighted that Hillel and Shammai reached the appropriate conclusion in their debate, confirming that the human animal was encumbered by some truly significant design flaws. However, Yehuda also taught that any aggrieved individual who had suffered as a result of these flaws should carefully listen to the shofar blasts on Rosh Hashanah, because within the silence between these sounds one can hear an apology from God for that person’s pain. Yehuda urged Hillel to teach people to pay attention to this silence in order to give them the opportunity to fulfill the mitzvah of forgiving all sincere repentance offered during the Ten Days of Repentance, even if the repentant is God himself.
Personally, Hillel did not need to wait for Rosh Hashanah. That very night, within the period of time that flies within one dream, Hillel was able to fully forgive God by liberating all of the healing power found within the soul that God had given him.
Hillel slept peacefully through the rest of that night for the first time in 1001 nights.
The source of his peace?
The Source.
ADDENDUM
Some question the authenticity of this teaching, as converts are usually named after our forefather Abraham, i.e. ben Abraham.
The Potzker tells a tale about how Yehuda ben Damah was named.
Those in the Shammai camp had heard that their teacher had initially rejected Yehuda’s request to be taught to be a Jew. In the Rabbinical Court prior to the conversion, they raised concerns about his lineage.
“This man descends from a long line of butchers, and we suspect he may in action be a spiritual descendant of Cain, the first human to shed the blood, the dam, of his brother on God’s holy adamah, the earth granted to him by his father Adam. Slaughtering animals and eating their blood is in his blood. What if he is damah, resembling his ancestors in ways that cannot be changed? He has tasted of the finest of meats, from all of the animals that non-Jews enjoy. Surely he will drift into his old ways and taste the forbidden.”
Hillel is said to have risen and taught those present:
“I personally will train this man to become a ritual slaughterer. Let him be named Yehuda, in recognition of his sensitivity to the largest of our tribes to survive slaughter. And let him be named ben Damah in recognition your concerns. You, who doubt that this man is entitled to a name with the holy letter aleph in it, will some day in your minds recognize that he is indeed a man of adamah, the pure earth that existed in the paradise of Eden before the creation of Adam. But, because of your baseless hatred, his name shall forever be ben Damah, stripped of its holy aleph, as a reminder to others not to do what you have done today with your prejudice toward this man’s spiritual purity, for such hatred only brings calamity upon all of us.”
And so, after the conversion, Hillel took Yehuda under his wing and taught him how to approach all creatures with the purest of mindsets, recognizing the Creator in each and every business encounter with an animal in his new job as a ritual slaughterer.
As Yehuda continued in his studies with Hillel, his attitude at work began to shift. It was not long before Yehuda cried tears of compassion prior to each and every slaughter, no matter if the animal before him was the most magnificent of cows or the lowliest of chickens.
Identifying a need in the community, Yehuda opened a butcher shop that was innovative for its time. He lovingly cleaned and properly salted all of the meat, liberating the women of the town from this non-rewarding task and thereby giving them more time to attend to higher tasks. The townspeople appreciated his efforts and grew to love their butcher who loved them back, and he showed it through the quality of the food that he tenderly prepared for them. In his efforts to make life more meaningful for his clients, he added one innovation to his store that changed everything. Yehuda sold meat that he had personally cooked, using a special blend of herbs and spices. The aromas wafting from his shop filled the neighborhood, and people flocked to his store to taste what Yehuda had prepared to please God’s nose. Hillel had taught Yehuda that when God was angry, his nostrils flared. Yehuda undertook his cooking as a form of prayer aimed at bringing peace upon the heavens by appeasing God’s nose, and thereby indirectly bringing peace back upon the earth. The people of the town gave Yehuda plenty of opportunity to worship God in his unique way, and within a short period of time, they stopped cooking meat altogether and relied upon Yehuda. After a while, the people even forgot how to cook meat, but that did not matter, as they had a taste of heaven readily available at the local butcher shop.
Over the years, the people noticed a change in Yehuda. He would serve each customer with a tear in his eye, and the people soon realized that they were not just purchasing meat, they were buying the flesh of animals that Yehuda had a personal relationship with. As a result, the townspeople eventually lost their appetite for eating any animal from which blood had to be drained. Out of compassion for the man they had grown to love, business dwindled to a trickle before it ceased altogether, making Yehuda the happiest man in town. Eventually Yehuda the butcher became Yehuda the baker, creating the most aromatically pleasing baked goods known to man and God. From that time on, the only tears that ever crossed his eyes were tears of joy.
It is said that the torture and execution of Yehuda ben Damah by the Romans involved a roasting pit and a special blend of herbs and spices. No other details were ever spoken. Since his death almost two thousand years ago, Jews throughout the world remember the name Yehuda ben Damah every Yom Kippur.
No additional words are said. Just the name, followed by silence.
Some contemplate the connection between the Hebrew word for teardrop, dama, and the Hebrew word damah, which means bearing a similarity to, and shed tears in comparing our world to his.
Some meditate on the aleph that is missing from his name, channeling the energy of this letter through the pain in their hearts, releasing it through a thin crack in their lips as a whispering sigh, a kol demahma dakah.
Others strive to smell the aroma of his baked goods and mingle that sensation with the one emanating from their empty bellies, creating a craving that, for a moment, fulfills the task of the day, the affliction of the collective Jewish soul.
Others can smell the odors of his execution, odors that mysteriously re-appeared in Europe generations ago, and worry about the vulnerable humans who can still to this day be seduced by these very same odors.
A few maintain the name Yehuda ben Damah in their heads from the time his name is mentioned until the end of the Yom Kippur service. Upon leaving the synagogue, they gaze upwards at the almost full moon and silently contemplate a midrash about the moon’s creation. Legend has it that God, feeling guilty for humiliating the moon by asking it to diminish its size relative to the sun, ordered that a goat that be sacrificed every new moon as atonement for his sin. They find some solace in thinking to themselves that, even if they failed to hear an apology between the shofar blasts ten days earlier, it is easy to extrapolate that a God that could feel guilty over the suffering of a huge rock would logically be apologetic for the unnecessary suffering that his human creations inflict upon one another. Seeing the moon not quite full serves as a reminder that, being a human with limitations makes it difficult to emulate Hillel and fully forgive God, as history teaches that events over the course of the upcoming year will surely challenge even the most sincere desire to forgive the Creator of All. Nevertheless, in memory of Yehuda ben Damah and other role models from the past, these people dedicate themselves annually to redeeming God’s vision for what mankind could be.
The story of Yehuda ben Damah, as taught by the Potzker, can generate much thought and action. But it is characterized by the silence. By not saying anything about Yehuda ben Damah on Yom Kippur, we emulate the example set by Aaron after the fiery death of his two sons, Nadav and Avihu.
Vayidom Aharon (Leviticus 10:3).
And though Aaron’s blood was hot, his lips were not.
And by remembering the encounter between Shammai and Yehuda, we are reminded that the world is, indeed, a stool.
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