The intense introspection of Elul is far behind us. The royal crowning of Hashem on Rosh Hashannah is but a distant memory. The pressure of Aseret Ymei Tshuvah has come and gone. The books of Yom Kippur have officially been closed. The sukkot have been dismantled and stored for another long year. Our feet have healed from the joyous dancing of Simchat Torah. Yet as sad as we are to pack away our various machzorim and see the Days of Awe fade away, the change of seasons brings with it a sigh of relief. We couldn’t possibly handle another barrage of huge meals, impose on another family for a place to stay, or afford to miss a single extra class. We couldn’t possibly pick out another outfit, afford another trip home or stand for another moment in shul pretending we know where we are in the machzor. And it is official, as a thunderstorm rages outside, answering the tefillot of Jews all around the world, that the cold front has brought with it someone we’ve both been dreading and secretly anticipating: The month of Cheshvan. Mar-cheshvan. Mr. Bitter Cheshvan.
As the only month of the Jewish calendar without a single holiday, the dismal beginning of winter, and a sudden return to the mundane after a period of spiritual bounty, Cheshvan doesn’t have the best reputation among the other months. He represents a fall from grace – spiritually, emotionally, and physically. The flood in the days of Noah that destroyed the world happened in Cheshvan. Rachel Immenu passed away in Cheshvan. So why does our tradition say that the Third Temple in the days of Mashiach will be built in this bitter, cold and empty month?
The challenge of Cheshvan is to ground the unbelievable spiritual energy of the chaggim in our seemingly mundane physical world. The word עולם, ‘world’, literally means ‘concealment’. In order to grant His creations the gift of free will and allow for the illusion of the existence of anything other than His All Encompassing Oneness, Hashem creates worlds of concealment. He masks Himself behind the mundane and allows for a world in which His very own creations can flatly deny His existence. And that is Cheshvan. “…בראשית ברא אלקים את השמים ואת הארץ: והארץ“
The Torah opens by telling us that in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. He created the spiritual realities of the universe, the happenings of the heavens, the secrets of existence, the holy, the transcendental, the beyond. And He created the earth. He created the physical world, the mundane, the imminent, the simple, the here and now. The second verse begins with the words והארץ. Don’t worry about the spiritual secrets, God hints to us, I’ll worry about that. Your life, your existence, your Torah that I am about to reveal to you, all takes place in the physical world. Know that השמים exists, He demands, but live in הארץ.
The chaggim are over for all of us. We may remain connected, but our period of basking in perpetual inspiration has dissolved into university, work, and the challenges of every day living. There is a danger of descending into this Cheshvan-like existence and dropping all of the spiritual enlightenment we have been granted out of a fear that there is no place for it in this bitter world of gashmiut. The challenge is instead to both bring the light down and raise the world up by revealing that behind the dark, heavy rainclouds of this world of concealment exists a Light and a Truth so bright that it is only through the chessed of concealment that He can allow for us to exist. Perhaps if we manage to use this month of Cheshvan properly, as a way to scratch away at the surface and reveal the hidden spirituality all around us, we will merit to see the Bet Hamikdash rebuilt, revealing that Mr. Bitter Cheshvan is really the bearer of the greatest spiritual gifts we could ever dream of. His storm clouds may bring darkness, but his rains bring unprecedented potential for growth.
