Side By Side Among Bells
by Rabbi Jonah Rank
Few things during rabbinical school made me both more excited and more nervous than chevruta study—reading aloud, translating, and discussing Jewish text in real time with a learning partner. On the one hand, this was an engaging social opportunity with any prospective (or current) friend and an intellectual activity I enjoyed. On the other hand—as both an introvert and an individual who slowly processes information I receive auditorily—the only modalities of chevruta study that I then knew pressured me into performing as someone I was not.
I wanted to appear learned and jovial, but, internally, I was often frustrated, struggling to understand how to make any contextual sense of the words in front of me. As someone who trusts themselves to work things out quietly in their head—I very poorly digested the most patient and most eloquent efforts of my chevruta to explain the passages that were tripping me up. Was my learning disability on full display? Did I hide my distress and confusion sufficiently that I managed to blend in? By trying so hard to look confident when I was confused, did I shortchange this chance to learn content that, I sensed, the rest of my classmates very quickly grasped?
When I think of the limitations with which I live, I have vacillated between two polar truths, each of which speak to me in different moments. Some days I truly believe disabilities prevent me from being part of the larger world. Other times, I truly believe I can still be part of a larger world if I do not affirm my limitations. I do not have one easily labeled disability or one obviously visible disability. I recognize a certain privilege I carry whenever I can forget how deeply certain aspects of disability color my experience of the world. Still, like so many people who, like I do, identify with Disabilities Culture—I have often wondered about my place in the world.
In my prayer practice, I find meaning in collecting in my non-dominant hand the tzitzit (i.e., the fringes) of my tallit (i.e., prayer shawl) when approaching the final blessing preceding the morning recitation of the passages of Shema (centered on Deuteronomy 6:4, 6:5–9, and 11:13–21; and Numbers 15:37–41). Composed of supposed omissions from the Zohar, the kabbalistic masterpiece of only a slightly earlier era—the late medieval mystical anthology Tikkuney HaZohar (תקוני הזהר, “The Amendments to the Zohar”) teaches the reader of the magical effects of the tallit:
וכד ישראל אמרין שמע ודאי מארי חיוון שמטין גדפייהו. באן אתר בכנפי מצוה? דאתמר בהון על ארבע כנפות כסותך אשר תכסה בה דאיהו כגוונא דמעיל האפוד דפעמונים ורמונים אינון לקבל חליין וקשרין שולי המעיל אינון לקבל כנפי מצוה
When [the people] Israel recites [the passages of] Shema, animal[-like] angels [in the celestial spheres] shed their wings. In which place [is it learned that] kanfey (כנפי, “wings” or “corners”) [of a tallit] are [part of] a mitzvah? For it is said regarding them, “[Make for yourself tassels] upon the four corners of the garment with which you cover up” (Deuteronomy 22:12). This is like the tunic for the efod (אפוד, “chest-plate”) with bells and pomegranates against the knots and ties at the fringes of the tunic [worn by the High Priest]. These parallel kanfey[, which are part of a] mitzvah. (Tikkuna 10, p. 25b.)
Referencing this passage in his Sha’ar HaKavvanot (שער הכונות, “The Gate of Intentions”), the Safed-based kabbalist Rabbi Chayyim Vital (1542–1620) recorded the practice allegedly originated by his master Rabbi Yitzchak Luria (1534–1572) as follows:
מהר והבא עלינו ברכה ושלום מהרה מארבע כנפות כל הארץ: בהגיעך כאן, תתיר כנפות הטלית המונחות על כתפיך ותניחם שיפלו הציציות למטה והוא מה שנז׳ בתיקונים דבעידן ק״ש שמטי חיון גדפייהו כו׳. ופ״א שמעתי ממוז״ל באופן זה: כי בהגיעך אל מקום הזה תשים שני צדדי הטלית על כתפיך כדרך שנוהגים קצת בני אדם... ובאומרך מארבע כנפות כל הארץ תכוין כי הם בחי׳ ד׳ כנפות הציציות של המלכות הנקרא ארץ לקבלם יחד בהיותם מפוזרים כדי שיאירו ארבעתם יחד במלכות ולכן צריך שתעלה שני צדדי הטלית ותשימם על שני כתפיך ואחר כך תקבץ הארבע ציציות בידך שמאלית לפי שהמלכות בשמאלא אתאחדת ושרשה משם ותניח ידך השמאלית בהיותה אוחז ד׳ הציציות כנגד הלב שהוא בשמאל כי משם מקבלת המלכות תדיר ותעשה כך עד שתאמר ודבריו חיים וקיימי׳ ונאמני׳ כו׳ אחר אמת ויציב כו׳
[Regarding the recitation of the last blessing preceding the recitation of Shema, at the words,] “Hurry, and bring upon us blessing and peace quickly from the four corners of all the earth:” Upon your reaching [these words] here, loosen the corners of the tallit resting upon your shoulder, and let them ease such that the tzitziyyot (ציציות, “tassels”) fall downward. And this is what is mentioned in the Tikkunim (תיקונים, “Amendments”—a Hebrew name for of the Aramaic Tikkuney HaZohar), that at the time of reciting Shema, the animal[-like] angels shed their wings etc. One time I heard from my master of blessed memory in this manner: When you arrive at this [passage of “Hurry, and bring upon us blessing and peace quickly from the four corners of the earth”], place the two sides of the tallit upon your shoulders like the way that some people do… When you say, “from the four corners of all the earth,” contemplate the dimension whereby those four corners of tzitziyyot belong to Malkhut (מלכות, “Sovereignty”)[, which is the emanation of God that kabbalists believe to be closest to our earthly experience], which is called Eretz (ארץ, “earth”). This collects them, as they are scattered so that the four of them should together illuminate Malkhut. Therefore, you must raise the two sides of the tallit and put them on your two shoulders. Afterwards, gather the four tzitziyyot in your left hand, for Malkhut unites with the left [side of God’s imagined Divine body], and its root is from there. Ease your left hand as it grabs the four tzitziyyot against the heart, which is on the left, for, from there, Malkhut always receives [light]. Do this until you say [in the blessings following the Shema] the words, “God’s words are alive, upright, faithful etc.” after [having recited the words] “True and upright etc. [is God’s word].” (Inyan Kavvanat Yotzer UKri’at Shema 1, Midrash Sason edition from 5775, p. 19a.)
Rabbi Vital lived in an era when Judaism evolved very quickly. He regularly saw and heard new meditations, customs, laws, and practices emerge from his master Rabbi Luria. Given how many interpretations Rabbi Vital offered to explain the practices of his master—it seems that Rabbi Vital did not really always know why a new ritual had come into existence. Further, it is possible that Rabbi Luria himself or the other kabbalists in this circle did not understand the origin of these new acts of piety. Somehow or another, taking the fringes of the tallit into one’s non-dominant hand became a widespread Jewish prayer practice. I believe, however, that Rabbi Vital overlooked a much simpler—and humanistic—meaning of this act.
Mystical testimonies tend to sound abstract; after all, we each may imagine Divinity in utterly different fashions from one another. Nonetheless, the most primal mystical goal—to unite with the Divine—evokes something that, whatever it may mean, any theist can begin to imagine. We do not, however, equate the fringes on our tallit with the Divine—even if the tzitziyyot may remind us of our people’s stories or religious sense of responsibility (as per Numbers 15:38–41) and thus remind us of the Divine. Rather, the fringes are extensions, of the very human need for clothing; the fringes, more immediately, are extensions of our very bodies and our very selves.
It makes sense that the prayer beginning with the words Maher VeHave Alenu (“מהר והבא עלינו,” “Hurry, and Bring Us”)—or, perhaps more commonly, VeHavi’enu LeShalom (“והביאנו לשלום,” “Bring Us in Peace”)—expresses our desire to be regathered. This regathering may call upon the pieces of ourselves that feel broken, urging that they reunite with the pieces of ourselves that feel whole. Alternatively, this regathering may focus on the dispersed (and occasionally disharmonious) Jewish people coming together again on common ground. Either way, for me—as someone who has felt lost before and as someone who does not always relate to one’s own body—this prayer feels very hopeful. Gathering the tzitzit reminds me that I can still be uplifted, united with a selfhood I love but do not always understand, united with a people I love but do not always understand, and united with a God I love but do not always understand.
The link that Tikkuney HaZohar uncovered between these tzitziyyot and the pomegranates and golden bells worn by the High Priest (as described in Exodus 28:33–35 and, in this week’s parashah of Pekudey, Exodus 39:25–26) provides me further comfort. God first described in Exodus 28:33 these ornaments of the High Priest as “רִמֹּנֵי֙ תְּכֵ֤לֶת וְאַרְגָּמָן֙ וְתוֹלַ֣עַת שָׁנִ֔י עַל־שׁוּלָ֖יו סָבִ֑יב וּפַעֲמֹנֵ֥י זָהָ֛ב בְּתוֹכָ֖ם סָבִֽיב” (“pomegranates of sky-blue, purple, and crimson yarns upon his hems all around; and bells of gold within them all around”). According to Exodus 28:35, this ornamentation provided protection to the High Priest: “וְהָיָ֥ה עַֽל־אַהֲרֹ֖ן לְשָׁרֵ֑ת וְנִשְׁמַ֣ע ק֠וֹל֠וֹ בְּבֹא֨וֹ אֶל־הַקֹּ֜דֶשׁ לִפְנֵ֧י יְהֹוָ֛ה וּבְצֵאת֖וֹ וְלֹ֥א יָמֽוּת׃” (“This will be upon Aharon in his service, and its sound will be heard when he comes to and when he leaves the holy place in front of Adonai—so that he does not die”). But how loud could the bells have been if the clappers of each bell were clanging against textile fabric? The medieval European anthology Midrash Lekach Tov comments on Exodus 28:33 with both surprise and awe:
כמה הם? שבעים רמונים ושבעים זגין, כנגד שבעים זקנים, ואחד גדול מלפניו, כנגד שבעים ואחד, וחלולין היו. והיו כמו חצצין של זהב שהיה קולן נשמע. וזה נס גדול היה, שהפעמון היה של זהב, והרמון של תכלת וארגמן ותולעת שני. והיה מקיש וקולו נשמע, כאילו היה כולו של זהב, ויש אומרים הכיסין היו של תכלת וארגמן ותולעת שני והפעמונים היו בתוכן.
How many were there? Seventy pomegranates and seventy clappers, corresponding to [the] seventy elders [of the rabbinic assemblage of the Sanhedrin near the beginning of the 1stmillennium]; however, [an additional] one was greater among them, corresponding to [the full] seventy-one [members of the Sanhedrin, when counting the head of the assembly]. They were like wedges of gold whose sound would be heard. But this was a great miracle, for the bell[-clapper] was gold, but the pomegranate was “sky-blue, purple, and crimson yards.” Yet, when it would clang, its sound would be heard, as if the whole of it were of gold! There are those who say [that there were] sheaths [for the bells, which] were “sky-blue, purple, and crimson yards,” but the [external structure of the] bells [as well as the clappers] were inside those [fabric sheathes].
Presumably withered in certain abilities over the course of aging yet still venerated for their wisdom—the elders, represented by muted bells, clasped to the margins of the garb of the High Priest but still rang true. In turn, when he was in his uniform, the High Priest never went anywhere without the echoes of the representatives of God’s people reverberating off of him. Like the tzitziyyot of today that our hands envelop when we hold our whole selves and the whole of the Jewish people—the bells and pomegranates of the High Priest swept together an entire nation of people who may have been whole on the inside or the outside but were, somewhere, broken and diminished.
I cannot overcome disability, and there is no purely organic way to transcend the disabilities that are in our nature. Yet, wearingtzitziyyotlinks us back to the High Priest, who donned the entire nation upon his body, chiming away hushed tones of Jewish pains, asks, hopes, and gratitude. In the absence of a Temple, we do not need the total getup of the High Priest; wearingtzitziyyotconsecrates us as priests to the temples that are our body and our people. When we hold thetzitziyyotin our hands, we know that, even if we have been quieted, we have not been silenced. Holding high in our weakest hand a brokenness that we either affirm or hope to see somehow rebuilt, we remind God every morning of this miracle: our bell still rings.
Since July of 2022, Rabbi Jonah Rank has served as President and Rosh Yeshivah of Chicago's Hebrew Seminary: A Rabbinical School for Deaf & Hearing. Rabbi Rank holds a MA in Jewish Thought from the Jewish Theological Seminary, where he was ordained in 2015. Rabbi Rank is an award-winning Jewish musician, an editor of Masorti: The New Journal of Conservative Judaism, and a former member of the Environmental Advisory Council of Lower Makefield, PA.
