Getting Drunk on Water

Last night was the first really good rain of the season here in Israel –  and I use the word ‘good’ purposely.  After all, the rain last night was not just strong and steady, but it — like all rain here — was also good for Israel.   On one level — the physical level — understanding why this is so is probably fairly obvious: Rain nourishes the land, from replenishing Israel’s drinking water resources to enabling the growth of agriculture.  Without rain, we can’t survive — and so it certainly is very good when rain comes along.

I would like to talk about how this rain — and water in general — is also good for Israel on a spiritual level.   To many, this assertion, too, may appear fairly obvious; after all, our sacred sources are replete with references to the value of water – water symbolizes Torah, rain is viewed as a sign of blessing, and praying for rain is considered the paradigmatic means to cry out to God and deepen one’s relationship with the Creator.  I would like to, however, discuss a less well known connection between water and spirituality — namely that water is the source of the deepest form of joy in Judaism.

The classic proof for this connection — that water and joy share an intimate relationship — is the water drawing ceremony that used to take place in the Temple area during the fall festival of Sukkoth.  During this ceremony, water was drawn in golden vessels from the Siloah well just outside of the old city in Jerusalem, then accompanied with much fanfare and shofars blasting to the Temple area, and ultimately poured over the holy Alter in an elaborate and majestic way.  Celebrations throughout the day before and night (and day) afterwards accompanied this process.  As the Talmud describes:

The entire city of Jerusalem glowed with light during this time thanks to golden candlesticks more than 70 feet high filled with golden bowls of holy oil.  The greatest Sages would participate joyfully in the celebration, performing the most extraordinary feats. Some of them would bear burning torches in their hands while singing Psalms and other praises of G-d. The Levites would play many various musical instruments, including harps, lyres, cymbals, and trumpets.  The great Sage Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel rejoiced at the water festival by juggling eight lighted torches; he would also kiss the ground as he did head stands, a feat which no one else could do.  Reb Levi used to juggle in the presence of Rabbi Yehuda HaNassi with eight knives. Shmuel would do the same with eight glasses of wine, without spilling any of their contents. Rabbi Abaye would juggle before Rabbi Rabba with eight eggs.  Rabbi ben Chanania said, “When we used to rejoice at the place of the water-drawing, our eyes saw no sleep.” It is explained that the entire day was occupied with holy activities, so that the participants in the simcha were busy from day to night.

Sounds like a great party, huh?  The Talmud certainly thought so, and thus declared: ”Whoever never witnessed the Simchat Beit Hashoeva – The Joyous Celebration of Drawing of Water - has never in his life seen true joy.”

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Now while I am all for a good party, it strikes me that there are at least two problems with the description above.  First, isn’t the declaration of the Sages that “one who has not witnessed the Drawing of Water Celebration has never seen true joy” a little exaggerated?  Surely there must be other times of great joy in the lives of people; births, weddings and other personal, communal and national celebrations are but a few possibities.  We, of course, can dismiss the statement of our Sages as simple hyperbole, but is there also a way to understand it literally?

Second, and this question is not mine but rather the query of Rabbi Aron Soloveitchik, why is it that water is the source of all this joy?  Wouldn’t it make more sense if some other liquid, something more regal – like holy oil — or more celebratory — like wine — was the medium poured onto the Temple’s Alter?  After all, throughout our sacred texts we have a number of examples of how precious these latter liquids?  Olive oil, for example, is used to light the Menorah inside the Temple (and of course is the hero of the Chanuka miracle, a source of millenia of joy); wine, meanwhile, is described by the book of Psalms  as the source that ”gladdens the heart of man.”  Surely either of these liquids — both of which are more expensive, more rare and more valued by all — would have made a better choice to celebrate rather than simple water (which also, at least in those days, was basically free to all)?  So again, why is it that water is the source of all this joy?

Rabbi Soloveitchik answers as follows:  Yes, wine is a source of joy, just as the psalmist says it is.  And yes, imbibing it has the power to cause one to celebrate … and that’s the problem.  Wine is an outside factor that produces joy, and thus the joy that is produced is often outside the person him or herself. 

Water, in contrast, does not produce any effect whatsoever on the person.  Nor is it something overly special — like olive oil in those days — that one would innately rejoice over possessing it.  It was everywhere, as common as … well, as common as water.  Therefore, if one was able to appreciate the water — despite it’s mundaneness — well, then, the resultant joy would not have been produced from the outside but rather something that emanated from within the person. 

Water is a basic building block of life, and obviously we could not survive without it.  But because it is so basic we often forget about just how precious it really is.  Being joyous over it, therefore, is not obvious … just as it is not obvious to celebrate all things that are common and part of our everyday existence — our families, our friends, our daily routine, the little moments.  

Just imagine, though, if in spite of the fact that feeling uncontrollable joy over these basic things is not obvious we felt such joy nevertheless.  Just imagine, if in spite of the fact I always see my family, and I always do many of the same things each day — and thus these things are not special in the sense that they are not unique nor rare — just imagine if I nevertheless always felt a great joy in expereincing them.  Just imagine if everytime I saw my family it was like the first time (or some other special time) I saw them — like the day I married to my wife, the moment my child was born, the reunion with my parents after a long absent.  If that were the case, certainly I would not only live a more joyous life on a regular basis, experiencing joy thoughout the day, but I would also be able to even heighten the sense of joy when experiencing things that are less common.  If I learn how to appreciate my child everyday and not just on her birthday, or at her wedding, or at some other special time, then certainly I will appeciate these latter moments with even greater intensity and joy when they do arrive.

And that’s the lesson of water.  Yes, compared to wine and oil, it’s cheaper and less special.  And yes, water in itself — unlike wine — does not produce joy.  To be able to celebrate water, then, is a very high level; it means one has achieved an existential state of joy, one not dependent on outside forces, not wine nor the occurrence of some special event.  No, all such a person needs are the basics in life, the water in life. 

Now we can understand the statement of the Talmud much better.  They were not saying that someone who never witnessed this particular ceremony never saw true joy in his life; rather, they were saying that someone who cannot find joy in the celebration of water alone — someone who cannot find joy in the common, everyday experiences – well then, this person will never experience true joy — even at uncommon moments.  Their joy will be the joy of wine – of needing an outside element — and that is incomplete.

If, however, such a person finds joy in everyday living, his potential for joy throughout life becomes unlimited.

And that’s something to celebrate.