During the Second Temple era a terrible and internally divisive struggle raged within the Jewish people. Two students of an early Tana/rabbi named Antignos misunderstood one of his teachings. These two students, named Tzadok and Baitus, attempted to discredit the authority of the Oral tradition of Torah Shebaal Peh. Reading each Torah verse in the most literal fashion possible and without the aid of rabbinic decoding, they formed a splinter group known as Sadducees. Their ultra-literal reading of the Torah yielded some very dramatic conclusions. For example, their Shabbat experiences were very austere—no fires would remain lit for heat or light; after all, the Torah writes that no fire should be “lit” of Shabbat, and the literal reading suggests the absence of any fire and a very cold and dark Shabbat.
This conflict raged throughout the entire Second Temple era as many Sadducees infiltrated high political office, including the office of the high priest. Throughout the generations this debate surfaced, and the Rambam was famous for defending the authority of Torah Shebaal Peh against a contemporary group known as Ka’ra’im that emerged in the eighth century and whose members lodged similar claims about rabbinic authority.
Though this debate stretched across many halachic issues, two debates in particular attracted great attention and controversy. Based on a literal read of the pasuk in Acharei Mot, the Tzedukim (Sadducees) instructed the kohen gadol to create the plume of ketoret-smoke after entering the inner sanctum, or Kodesh Hakodashim. By contrast, our Chazal read the verse as instructing the kohen to first enter and to create the smoke while already standing in the inner sanctum. As this is the centerpiece of the Yom Kippur ceremony and the lone annual human entry to the Kodesh Hakodashim, it is easy to imagine why this dispute was so seminal and, ultimately, bitter.
The second famous debate surrounded the launch of the Omer and consequently the date of Shavuot, which always coincides with the first day of the Omer. The Torah instructs the Omer launch on the day after “Shabbat,” which implies that the Omer should always commence on Sunday. Chazal reinterpret this phrase “the day after Shabbat” to refer to the day after Pesach; by extension, Omer commences the day after Pesach and ultimately Shavuot occurs seven weeks later on that same day of the week. Presumably, this debate was ideological because it disputed the scheduling “scheme” for Shavuot. Essentially, the Sadducee position always tagged Omer and Shavuot to the day after Shabbat, whereas Chazal tethered it to the day after Pesach. Chazal believed that the process of receiving the Torah on Shavuot should stem from the events of Pesach rather than initial Creation of our world, which Shabbat marks. It would appear that this was the chief issue at the heart of the “Omer” controversy.
Rav Kook suggests an intriguing alternative. During the Temple era, the Omer period commenced with a korban of barley to both launch the process as well as permit sacrifices from the newly harvested grains (chadash). This korban—Minchat Ha’Omer—was sacrificed the 16th of Nisan and the Omer counting was launched. Unlike most korbanot, whose preparation isn’t integral to the sacrifice, the Omer sacrifice preparation was inherent to the ceremony: The night before the sacrifice on the 16th, the ritual of harvesting the newly ripened barley was performed. Minchat Ha’Omer entails a two-step process that begins with harvest the night before.
The day of Pesach proper can occur on any day of the week, including Friday. In such a scenario the Omer would harvested Friday night as a prelude to the actual sacrifice on the 16th, which that year occurred on Shabbat. This overtally of Shabbat by harvesting barley is a bit atypical; typically, various Mikdash-centered activities overtally Shabbat but this scenario of harvesting barley on Friday night is the lone overtally activity to occur outside the Mikdash.
The Tzedukim were ultimately uncomfortable with this prospect and they endeavored to engineer the schedule to avoid this “irreligious scenario.” By “fixing” the Omer as the “day after Shabbat,” or Sunday, they assured that barley would never be harvested in “violation” of Shabbat.
The Tzedukim adopted a harsh and narrow definition of religious experience. Activities that occur in the Mikdash can be termed “ritual” and may, if necessary, violate Shabbat. Activities outside the Mikdash could not possibly be integrated into religious identity. Not only was harvest activity distant from the Mikdash, but the activity itself—reaping grains of barley—didn’t possess the “feel” of ritual. It seemed unthinkable that grains could be harvested on Friday night, and the Tzedukim tailored the calendar to avoid this “travesty.”
By contrast, our Chazal adopted a more holistic view of avodat Hashem: indeed there are moments during which we stand in sacred locations performing ceremonies and rituals. At other points, however, we are “in the field” performing activities necessary for the sustainability of a nation—preparing sacrifices that will allow the new bounty to be utilized. Furthermore, developing land and agriculture in Israel is inherently sacred—even outside the context of ritual to permit new grains. Eretz Yisrael is Hashem’s backyard, and if we love Him we bond to His terrace, study its contours, longingly till its meadows and joyously draw its fertility. Unable to grasp this integration between land and religion, the Tzedukim campaigned for a system that would perennially fix this experience on a non-Shabbat date. Agricultural activity couldn’t ever be sacred enough to violate Shabbat. It was precisely this issue of extending religious meaning to Israeli agriculture that divided Tzedukim and Chazal!
Baruch Hashem, we have returned to Israel and have been wildly successful in once again eliciting her bounty and her beauty. Beyond agricultural success we have learned to love our land: we enjoy her vistas, are enamored with the beauty of her terrain and avidly trek her various landscapes. The call of the land was so powerful that it even enchanted secular Zionists for whom ritual was unfortunately no longer attractive. The charm of our land is a glimmer of the Divine beauty!
Our generation has the privilege of debunking the claim of the Tzedukim in real time by fusing land to religion. We can finally tread over regions Yehuda Halevi could only dream of and write poetry about.
By Rabbi Moshe Taragin
Rabbi Moshe Taragin is a rebbe at Yeshivat Har Etzion located in Gush Etzion, where he resides.
