The Rabbi’s Address: 'Man is as the Tree of the Field'

We continue our cooperation with the Rabbi Adin Even-Israel Steinsaltz Institute and publish material prepared specifically for the member communities of the EAJC. This article is published after the passing of Rabbi Steinsaltz, of blessed memory, a great thinker of our generation, scholar, and Hasid.

The words of the Torah, "For man is like a tree of the field" (Devarim, 20:19), indicate a connection between people and trees, and the possibility of drawing a comparison between them. This is also confirmed by many other images in the Scriptures: "And he shall be like a tree planted by rivers of water" (Tehillim, 1:3), "For he shall be like a tamarisk in the desert" (Yirmiyahu, 17:6). Thus, it appears that by observing trees and their development, we learn much about man, his soul, and his service to the Almighty.

Tu BiShvat, the New Year for Trees, is a day on which we strengthen our connection and attachment to the Land of Israel and everything that grows upon it—an appropriate time to reflect on trees and learn from them. (This year, it begins on January 27 at nightfall—Ed.)

One aspect of comparing a person to a tree is the connection to the earth. A tree grows from the ground as if it were its child; similarly, a person has a nourishing soil. Just as a tree severed from the earth is doomed to die, so a person—individual or community—cannot live isolated, as a "self-created" entity.

Let us begin by considering the individual. One of the main sources of modern human suffering is the unfulfilled need for social belonging. The widespread feeling of loneliness and the alienation characteristic of modern people are the result of a person no longer feeling "grown from the soil."

Social affiliations today are, as a rule, exclusively pragmatic. To protect common interests, people unite in groups—similar to trade unions. Here, they do not feel at home, they do not feel "rooted." Such a social unit is formed spontaneously, as a temporary alliance for joint defense and offense. Many people feel like eternal wanderers, accidentally finding themselves in one place or another, but, in essence, connected to none of them. They do not experience a sense of belonging and are therefore easily uprooted from it. In a sense, modern man can be compared to plastic decorative plants, which are lifeless and can therefore "bloom" without needing soil.

This situation arises from the desire to realize the ideal of individual personal freedom, which strives to separate from any society. The individual attempts to become the center and foundation of all existence. He who does not surrender his right to be an individualist, independent of everything, can establish a way of existence anywhere—for indeed, he belongs to nowhere.

The metaphors of the Psalms: "The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree, he shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those that are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God" (Tehillim, 92:13) depict the righteous man as a fruitful tree in an oasis. A person attached to a specific place, possessing a sense of responsibility toward his environment, can develop, flourish, and bear fruit. In contrast, the wicked are cursed to be like dry grass carried by the wind from place to place: "Make them like tumbleweed, like stubble before the wind" (Tehillim, 83:14). He whose life is not built on strong roots feels that all ties and duties bind him hand and foot, giving him no room to breathe. Such a person has chosen the fate of a felled tree: a life in which there is no nourishment from roots and, as a consequence, no development—strictly speaking, not a life at all.

The same phenomenon can be observed on a broader historical scale. It is sufficient to consider the major rebellions against one's environment in Jewish society over recent generations. Part of the social essence of the Jewish people has always been the feeling that a Jew is planted in his soil, from which he draws strength and which he attempts to cultivate.

Even when a process of renewal unfolds, it does not lead to complete transformation into an entirely new creation; a part of the past essence is always preserved. Thus, the rings on the cross-section of a trunk show that no matter how much the tree is renewed, producing new branches and leaves, it does not alter the trunk—its ancient essence—but merely adds new layers to it.

In recent generations, the Jewish people have experienced a "revolution of estrangement." Jews broke away from their environment and disregarded their past. For ideological and pragmatic reasons, they severed all ties with the tradition that raised them, so that their children could no longer know their family's past and identify themselves with its roots.

Some broke with the past quite consciously; for others, this fracture occurred unconsciously, often as a result of coercion and deception. Thus, a reality freed and devoid of roots was constructed; it is not surprising that so many today experience a sense of detachment from their past. This circumstance is the main reason for the inability of modern Jews to identify with their own Jewishness. To compensate for the deficit caused by a prolonged interruption of connection, a person must work to find nourishing soil: to find his home and homeland.

There is no other way but to search for, or at least attempt to restore, the place and atmosphere from which one can draw vital strength and grow.