Shelah Lekha (Rambam)

Tallit: Married Man, Bachelor and Divorcé

The mitzvah of tzitzit, the fringes worn upon the corners of the tallit and other four-cornered garments, is the subject of the final section of this week’s parsha. Interestingly, the various approaches to this seemingly simple mitzvah seem to encapsulate many different aspects of the Jewish world today.

Ba’alei teshauvah: one of the first signs of the deepening piety of many of these neophytes to Jewish observance is the wearing of tzitzit, specifically outside of their garments, so as to be visible to all and sundry.

Religious feminism: the wearing of tallitot by women is perhaps the most striking visible sign of a new approach to the role of women in the synagogue—one which, by the nature of things, arouses controversy in many quarters.

“Restorative messianism,” to use Scholem’s phrase: There are those today who attempt to revive ancient practices which have long fallen into disuse, for various reasons. One of these is the wearing of tekhelet, the blue thread in the tzitzit, which is seen increasingly today.

New Age Judaism: the aesthetic of this approach is expressed in the use of different and colorful styles of garments for the tallit—from the rainbow-striped tallit introduced some forty years ago by Reb Zalman Schachter, through a variety of other designs and color schemes, including a tallit depicting a pastoral forest scene with a rustic cottage, to one made of the traditional whitish-cream wool decorated with colorful neckties pointing in every which direction.

Zionist pride: In one synagogue I saw a tallit which was an expression of its wearer’s intense Zionism—an Israeli flag, stretched across his back (rather like a Beitar fan attending a soccer final in some European stadium), with tzitzit. I mused that this was an ironic closing of a circle: after all, the Israeli flag (or, in pre-State days, the banner of the Zionist movement) was originally based upon the tallit, with its two parallel stripes and azure color, with the addition of a Star of David.

But since this week (in 2004) the Chipman family is celebrating a wedding, I shall focus on the connection between tzitzit and marriage. A time-honored, but nevertheless strange and unexplained custom, draws a connection between the donning of the tallit and marriage. It is the custom in most Ashkenazic circles for a young man to begin wearing a tallit only on his wedding day. Until then, presumably, bachelors fulfill this mitzvah by wearing the tallit katan alone (the history of this garment, generally worn underneath the clothing, is itself clouded in obscurity).

This past winter I encountered an interesting question related to this: should a divorced man continue wearing a tallit? One Shabbat I ran into a friend who informed me that his divorce had just been finalized by saying: “Look, I’m not wearing a tallit.” When I pointed out that I doubted that this was in fact the correct practice, another man standing nearby said, “I’m also divorced, and my rabbi told me that I needn’t wear a tallit.” He added that, subsequent to his divorce, he felt broken and incomplete, and that he felt that wearing a tallit is a “privilege granted to the complete soul (one who is with his mate).” This comment whetted my curiosity, particularly as I remembered several other divorcés who had also ceased wearing the tallit after the divorce.

At first blush, several reasons come to mind in support of a person continuing to wear a tallit after divorce. First of all, from what I have observed, the predominant custom is for men to continue to wear a tallit so long as they have once been married. The example of two of the great Torah leaders of our generation—Rav Soloveitchik and Rav Zvi Yehudah Kook—who continued to wear tallitot during their extended period of widowhood, comes immediately to mind. Then, as a general rule, once one has begun to observe a particular custom or mitzvah, even if one is not technically obligated to do so, one should continue to do so. “One ascends in holiness and does not descend in one’s level of holiness.”

Strictly speaking, the wearing of a tallit, or of tzitzit, is not an obligation incumbent upon the individual as such, unlike many other mitzvot, such as wearing tefillin, reciting the Shema twice daily, etc. Rather, it is conditional on one’s having a four-cornered garment; if one does, one is required to place tzitzit on it. Only if one wears a such a garment without tzitzit is one actually considered as having abrogated a positive halakhic obligation. Nevertheless, wearing tzitzit is considered a meritorious act, which one should strive to fulfill. Thus, Rambam in Hilkhot Tzitzit 3.11:

11. Even though a person is not obligated to buy a garment and to enwrap himself in it so as to make tzitzit, it is not suitable for a pious person to exempt himself from this mitzvah. Rather, a person should make an effort to be enwrapped in a covering that is obligated in tzitzit so as to fulfill this commandment. And at the time of prayer he needs to be particularly careful. It is a great disgrace for scholars to pray when they are not enwrapped.

12. A person should always take care concerning the commandment of tzitzit, for the Scripture compared it to all the commandments and made them dependent upon it, as is said, “that you may see them and remember all the commandments of the Lord” [Num 15:39].

What, then, is the origin of this rather odd custom of “bukherim” refraining from wearing a tallit prior to marriage? And why is this custom confined to those communities and groups that originated to Eastern Europe, whereas Sephardic Jews and Jews of German descent where it from bar mitzvah, if not earlier?

When I discussed this with some friends who engage in semiotics and social history, both answered that the tallit served as a kind of “status garment”—as a public sign of a man’s status as a married man, or ba’al bayit. Given the central importance of marriage in Judaism, it seems particularly appropriate that it be marked by some external sign, by beginning to wear a festive item of apparel. According to various midrashic and Kabbalstic sources, a person is not considered whole until he or she marries; until then, the person is considered a plag guf, ”half a body” (possibly alluding to the legend that Adam and Eve were originally a single androgynous being, later severed to make the two genders). Hence, it is not surprising that one of the few daily mitzvot for which there is some halakhic leeway is reserved for the married state.

An incident related in the Talmud may relate to this matter. In Kiddushin 29b, it is told that Rav Hisda referred to Rav Huna be-Rav Hamnuna, whom he had never met, as “a great man.” When the latter came to visit him, Rav Hisda observed that he didn’t cover his head (lo paris sudra). When asked why, he replied, “because I have not married.” Upon hearing this, Rav Hisda sent him away and told him not to return until he was married. The nature of the garment referred to as sudra is unclear: it may have been a fringed shawl or scarf, i.e., a tallit, wrapped or twisted around the head, or some sort of turban. In any event, this story is cited by later halakhists as a source for the practice of unmarried men not wearing tallitot: since the essential act of donning a tallit involves wrapping oneself in it completely (hence the wording of the blessing, lehitatef), if one does not place it over one’s head, perhaps one should not wear it at all.

Another explanation, brought by the Maharil, the 14th century scholar often considered the codifier of Ashkenazic custom, is that the “short version” of this mitzvah appearing in Deuteronomy 22:12 (“you shall make yourselves tassels on the four corners of the garments with which you cover yourselves”) is immediately followed by a reference to marriage (“When a man takes a wife…”), implying that the former is dependent upon the latter. Yet another explanation is a sociological one: in Eastern Europe, the tallit, a somewhat expensive item, was the customary wedding gift of father-in-law to his son-in-law.

In Kabbalistic thought, the tallit symbolizes or makif, the radiance of the transcendent, all-permeating aspect of God. Similar to the sukkah, which is also related to makifin, tzitzit is one of the few mitzvah which encompasses a person’s entire body. This light only rests upon a person who is married, for “until a man marries, he is found in a state without joy and without blessing.” (Marriage, too, may certainly be viewed as an all-embracing institution, a total change in one’s status and life situation.) Hence, it is explained (by Mor u-Ketzi’ah, quoted in a recent book by Y. Lewy called Minhag Yisrael Torah) that a man ought not wear a tallit prior to marriage.

Returning to the man who felt spiritually broken after his divorce, and for whom the tallit somehow represented a kind of wholeness: he seems to have intuitively sensed these selfsame ideas. The idea of or makif carries a protective connotation; now that he was divorced, he felt somehow exposed, vulnerable to the ebbs and currents of the world without the strength provided by the marital unit. Psychologically and spiritually exposed, bare and naked—what better symbolic expression than to doff an article of “sacred,” symbolic clothing. Let me add that this idea of protection may also be symbolized by the custom of the bride walking around the groom at the wedding, making a kind of protective circle.

Not wearing a tallit after divorce may also have the exact opposite meaning. In the religious world, in which wearing a tallit is a public sign of one’s marital status, to cease doing so be also be a kind of advertising one’s newly-single status, in hopes of finding a new partner. This is analogous to the practice of some women, who wore hair–covering during marriage, to uncover their hair after divorce—a practice which, while against the simple sense of the Shulhan Arukh on this subject, is permitted by some authorities.

In conclusion, I should mention that there are also those who object to the entire custom, or suggest that it has no substantive basis in halakhah, noting that it took root at a time when many men married by age 14 or 15, unlike today’s society, in which there are numerous adult bachelors. I would add that, in our day, when many people don’t wear a tallit katan under their clothes, the minhag of not wearing a tallit before marriage causes some people to not fulfill the mitzvah of tzitzit at all. (“I won’t wear a tallit because people with think that I am married”). Yet, notwithstanding these seemingly reasonable arguments, it would seem that the power of long-established custom, and of symbolic status–related dress, is ultimately stronger.

“Go Not Astray after Your Heart or After Your Eyes”

The declared aim of tzitzit is to serve as a reminder of the mitzvot, and as a prophylactic against the person going astray “after your heart and after your eyes.” Rambam’s interpretation of this verse is rather unusual—as we shall see in comparing it to the Rabbinic dictum on which he ostensibly bases himself, at least in part—and sheds light on his overall approach to several issues concerning the relation between heart and mind. Hilkhot Avodat kokhavim u-mazalot 2.3:

3. All of these prohibitions are concerned with one matter—namely, that a person not turn aside after idolatry. For whoever turns after it in such a way that he performs some act is subject to corporeal punishment. And not is only is one forbidden to turn in one’s thoughts after idolatry, but any thought that causes a man person to uproot any one of the principles of the Torah, we are admonished not to raise it in our hearts and not to turn our thought towards it, and not be drawn after the thoughts of our heart. For a person’s mental comprehension is limited, and not all minds are capable of apprehending the truth thoroughly. And if every person were to follow the thoughts of his heart, it would destroy the world, because of the limitations of his mind.

How so? At times he will go astray after idolatry, and at times he will question the unity of God, perhaps He is and perhaps He is not. [Or he will question] what is above, what is below, what is before and what is after. And at times regarding prophecy, perhaps it is true perhaps it is not. And at times regarding Torah, perhaps it is from Heaven, perhaps not. And he does not know the by which he should reason until he can know the truth clearly, and we find that he turns towards heresy.

This passage places the profound difference between Maimonides and his modern admirers in stark dramatic light. Maimonides is often invoked as a champion of rationalism—and as such akin to modern patterns and ways of thought. While this is true, it is only so up to a certain point. It must be remembered that he was a medieval philosopher, placing equal emphasis on both halves of that formula. In the modern world, philosophy and rationalism are associated with free thinking, with open exploration of the world using the tools of the intellectual. Not so Rambam: he believes strongly in one, definite truth, accessible to reason.

The various “errors” that can be reached by reason do not interest him; or, rather, they interest him as potential dangers. He is well aware of the difficulties of the intellectual enterprise, and that not all people are capable of attaining the truth through their own intellectual powers—indeed, only a small minority are. One requires great clarity of thought, proper training, and numerous hakdamot—a word translated “introductions,” that as used by him means: prior assumptions, preliminary disciplines, that are essential elements of the pursuit of metaphysical truth. In the meanwhile, the person who relies on his own mind is more likely than not to fall into one or another of the pitfalls of undisciplined and incorrect thinking. Rambam is thus an unabashed elitist: only the few, who in addition to being bright are willing to undertake the arduous discipline and lengthy years of study demanded, may eventually apprehend the truth through their own minds.

The contrast between Rambam and the modern mentalité may also be seen in his approach to pagan religion. In the halakhah just preceding this one, which we have not brought here, Rambam explicitly prohibits reading books about pagan religion. Modern intellectuals are by and large interested in such things as anthropology, literature, history, etc. A basic cultural assumption is that “the proper study of mankind is man”—meaning, that the actual creations of human culture are a worthy object of study, in and of themselves, regardless of their absolute “truth” value (indeed, one might add, we are far more skeptical as to whether such a thing at all exists). This must, ipso facto, include religion. An instructive example of this is the project of Ernst Cassirer (see his An Essay on Man) who, together with his colleagues in the Hamburg school of the 1920s and ‘30s, attempted to create a summum bonum, not of theology or metaphysics, but of human culture as a whole. It is that spirit which, for better or worse, influences all of us, and which inspires the study of liberal arts and its ever broader, “multi-cultural” successors.

And concerning this matter the Torah warned, saying, “And you shall not go astray after your hearts and after your eyes, after which you go wantonly” [ibid.]. That is, that each one of you should not be drawn after his own limited mental comprehension, imagining that through his thought he apprehends the truth. Thus said our Sages: “’After your hearts’ refers to heresy, and ‘after your eyes’ refers to licentiousness” [Berakhot 12b]. And even though [violation of] this prohibition may cause a person to loose the World to Come, is not subject to corporal punishment.

At the very end of this halakhah, Rambam mentions that the purpose of tzitzit is to avoid, not only incorrect theological thinking, but also sexual licentiousness. As presented here, its mood strongly contrasts to the Talmudic source quoted as source, which seems much more emotion and body-centered. As Rashi says on this verse, “The heart and the eyes are like two procurers… the eye sees, the heart desires, and the body goes and sins.”

Rambam, by contrast, seems far more interested in minut than in zenut. It is almost as if sexual misconduct, like heretical thought, is caused by incorrect thinking, as if someone might surrender to sexual lust because of wrong philosophical conclusion. Maimonides seems to believe that the mind and the will are capable of fully ruling the more unruly parts of the human personality (see, e.g., our discussions of Hilkhot De’ot). Yet, to the contrary: how many wise men and great intellects—including people who considered themselves pious, upright, ethical, etc.—have had their head turned by a pretty face or a shapely body, fueled by a situation of loneliness and emotional aridity in their life? How many kopf menschen (“mind people”) are emotionally childish? Another important difference between ourselves and the Rambam is that we are less sanguine about the power of the mind, and more aware of the complexity of human psychology and of the chaos that lies within each of us.