The Trauma and Disruption of Neither Meat Nor Wine
I have a friend who believes that his chirpiness and all-around positivity stem from the fact that he was born on Rosh Ḥodesh Adar. The exuberance that comes with the beginning of Adar – mi she-nikhnas Adar marbim be-simḥa, “when Adar begins we increase our joy” (Ta‘anit 29a) – is something he feels directly infused his entire personality from birth.
I was born on Rosh Ḥodesh Av: Mi she-nikhnas Av mima‘atim be-simḥa, “when Av begins we decrease our joy” (mTa‘anit 4:6) – I’ll leave you to draw any corollaries.
But what’s interesting about mi she-nikhnas Av is that it’s not just a statement, it’s a demand: there are a variety of prohibitions which, within the Ashkenazi world, take effect from the beginning of the month – the best known being the prohibition of eating meat and drinking wine.
Except that what I just said might not be true. Because even among one of the earliest references to the prohibition – the deeply influential halakhic work of unknown authorship entitled Kol Bo – this fact is debated (§62). At first, the Kol Bo roots the prohibition in the well-known understanding of R. Yehudah ben Beteira’s declaration that ein simḥa ela be-basar, “there is no joy other than with meat” (Pesaḥim 109a). He thus argues that our need to decrease our joy when Av begins mandates that the strongest source of joy, meat, must be placed on the chopping block. (Though the Kol Bo doesn’t mention wine, the idea still works for wine as R. Yehudah b. Beteira also says that there is no joy other than wine.)[1]
Kol Bo’s second reason, however, has nothing to do with joy – at least, directly. Because he argues that the motivation for our decreased joy is that the Temple’s destruction meant an end to both the offering of korbanot and the nisukh ha-yayin, the wine libation. (“Libation” being one of those words no one actually knows the meaning of – all they know is that it’s the correct translation of nisukh. But given no one can comprehend either “nisukh” or “libation,” it’s not so helpful.)
But as I was chewing over the Kol Bo’ alternative understanding this morning, I was struck by a thought – one that has transformed how I process the practices and prohibitions of the Nine Days.
It begins with something far from our minds during this moment in time, the shalosh regalim: Pesaḥ, Shavuot, and Sukkot. Because all of them revolve around mitzvot and traditions that are specifically performed zekher le-mikdash, “in memory of the Temple.” While during the times of the Beit ha-Mikdash certain things were only performed within the Temple precinct itself, Ḥazal instituted their performance everywhere following the Beit ha-Mikdash’s destruction, to preserve the memory and glory of a lost world.
The best-known of these practices is our waving of arba minim on Sukkot during all the days of the festival. While they were only meant to be waved on the festival’s first day outside of the Beit ha-Mikdash, the practice was ultimately changed so that it could be performed anywhere zekher le-mikdash (mSukkah 3:12).
Similarly, on Sukkot the men circle the bimah with their arba minim in memory of the ceremony in which the mizbeaḥ was circled. And many people participate in a simḥat beit ha-sho’eva as a callback to the glorious celebrations that accompanied the water drawing ceremony in preparation for the special water libation on Sukkot.
And when it comes to Pesaḥ we have an entire step of the Seder – Korekh – which is done solely for the purpose of zekher le-mikdash. In fact, we literally declare this fact right before we eat it (S.A. O.Ḥ. 475:1)![2] And there are even those who argue that the entire motivation for maror these days is zekher le-mikdash (Shulḥan Arukh ha-Rav, 475:15).
And even though Shavuot doesn’t have much to begin with, the entire festival is predicated on Sefirat ha-Omer – about which the gemara records a celebrated debate. According to Ameimar, the Omer is counted solely zekher le-mikdash (Menaḥot 66a).
But the “problem,” as it were, with all these practices performed zekher le-mikdash is that they reflect how Judaism ultimately thrived in the face of disaster. Rather than dwell on the destruction, Ḥazal reconfigured the entire way Jews should live their lives: tefillah replaced the sacrificial order, the shul became the Mikdash me‘at, “the Temple in microcosm,” and the pilgrimage festivals became home- and synagogue-centric, with zekher le-mikdash reflecting the loss of the Temple yet reinforcing that there was a clear path forward.
Yes, it was not all triumph – there were clearly moments of despair. The Talmud preserves dark and disturbing statements uttered in the wake of the Temple’s destruction that reflect on the futility of Judaism and Jewish life without a Beit ha-Mikdash (Bava Batra 60b). But such reflections were relegated to the background: the focus became moving forward – forging a new meaning to Jewish life and practice without a Temple.
Ultimately, what happened over 2,000 years was a process whereby our practices performed zekher le-mikdash became ones in which we remembered the glory of the Temple. Yes, there was a twinge of sadness – but that lurked in the background. And often, we didn’t even remember that these were Temple-centric to begin with. We forgot the entire thrust of zekher le-mikdash, because it just became the only way we knew how. Do we ever think that, in an ideal world, we wouldn’t be waving arba minim on Ḥol ha-Mo‘ed?
It is only when the Nine Days begin that the true reality of Judaism comes crashing down upon us.
For all that Judaism recovered from the Temple’s destruction – for all that Judaism still thrived – its soul, its entire purpose was lost. Yes, we cannot imagine a world with korbanot and so it is hard to mourn that fact. Yes, we cannot imagine a world with libations – especially when we can’t even comprehend the word “libations” – and so it is hard for us to mourn.
But a world without meat? A world without wine? The sheer disruption this presents is a constant, jarring reminder of just how much has been lost. In fact, the things we do during the Nine Days – including our refraining from meat and wine – have their own term, one that parallels zekher le-mikdash. They are all observed zekher le-ḥurban, “in memory of the destruction.” These practices don’t reflect our recovery, our ability to move on – they reflect the opposite: the fundamental impossibility of Judaism truly thriving without a Temple. For all that so much of our year effectively celebrates our thriving in the wake of the Temple’s destruction, any optimism we might have is shattered by the realization of the ḥurban as the Nine Days begin.
Our festivals celebrate Judaism’s past, present, and future – how, no matter what happens, we can always serve the Ribbono Shel Olam. But the Nine Days mourns not only Judaism’s past, but also its present and future. Without a Beit ha-Mikdash, there will always be limits on what we can do – and the absence of meat and wine during the Nine Days serves as a constant reminder of that fact.
[1] Obligatory footnote that R. Yehudah ben Beteira is almost always misquoted. He’s explicitly referring to the meat of korbanot. Whereas wine only brings joy in a world without the meat of korbanot. This is why I refer to it as a “well-known understanding of R. Yehudah ben Beteira’s declaration” rather than just a statement of his.
[2] Though it should come as no surprise to learn that there’s robust controversy over whether we should actually make the declaration.