Shabbat Shalom! Happy Halloween! Happy Challah-ween!

What fun to have Halloween overlap with Shabbat. Halloween does not have any Jewish origin. It might seem a bit similar to Purim- costumes, masks, candy. But really, Halloween was a pagan Celtic holiday that eventually merged with a pagan Roman holiday until the Catholic Church ultimately took it on as an opportunity to honor Christian martyrs. Eventually, you get Halloween as you’ll see it when you leave tonight. 

However, listen to this description of Halloween’s earliest origins- a Celtin holiday called Samhain (Sow-in). 

“This day marked the end of summer and the harvest and the beginning of the dark, cold winter, a time of year that was often associated with human death. Celts believed that on the night before the new year, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. On the night of October 31 they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth…Celts thought that the presence of the otherworldly spirits made it easier for the Druids, or Celtic priests, to make predictions about the future.”

Halloween is not Jewish- but we have a story from the Talmud which sounds remarkably similar. So let’s settle in for a Jewish ghost story:

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in the land of Israel there was a man and woman who lived on a little farm on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Like everybody else in their village, they lived in close connection with the land- farming all spring and summer and harvesting in the fall to prepare those cold, dark winters when everything is harsh and life is fragile. 

But this village seemed to be suffering from a stroke of bad luck. Year after year, the summer months were marked by a drought. Year after year, the farmer and his wife spent the cold, dark winter months rationing food, huddled by the little fire, fearing the end was nigh. 

One summer, at the height of the drought, the farmer saw a poor man begging in the village. The farmer felt around in his pocket and realized that the family was down to their last dime. He weighed his options for a moment and gave away that final dime to the poor man. Perhaps this act of tzedakah would change his fortunes. 

He headed back to the farm, surveyed his dry, parched land, and then went into the house to share the details of his day with his wife. To his dismay, she was not pleased with his choices. “How could you give away our last dime!? In the middle of this drought! You know the consequences of this! How could you do this to us?!”

The couple bickered with each other the rest of the day and into the evening. Finally, the husband decided he was clearly not sleeping in their bed tonight, and he set out into the dark, lonely fields of their village. He wandered aimlessly for some time, completely alone. All was silent. He wandered his way into the village cemetery, thinking he’d visit the graves of his family and beloved, deceased rabbi. But the sun seemed to set unusually quickly. He was having trouble reading the headstones. Suddenly, complete, stifling, all-consuming darkness set in. 

Beginning to panic, realizing there’s no way he’d find his way safely back home, he laid down right where he was and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the darkness. The wind began to howl through the bare tree branches and he gave a little shudder, as he drifted off into an uneasy sleep. 

In a dazey dream, he heard two voices whispering to each other. He slowly got up, and stumbling forward, groping in the dark, he gasped as he came to a clearing and saw two brilliant, ghostly lights circling around in the air. He leapt behind a headstone and listened in.

“My friend,” one said to the other. “Let us roam about the world and hear from behind the heavenly curtain what calamity will befall the world.” The man felt a shiver run down his spine. 

“I cannot,” said the second spirit. “I am buried beneath a mat of reeds, but you go and tell me what you hear.” 

In a split, the 1st ghostly light whipped around and returned in an instant, just like magic. 

“My friend,” the trapped spirit said. “What did you hear from behind the heavenly curtain?”

“I heard that anyone who sows during the 1st rainy season, hail will strike his crops.”

The farmer’s ears perked up. For the first time the whole night, he wasn’t afraid. Could this be true? Was his fortune about to turn around? Did that act of tzedakah earlier in the day actually work?

He strained his ears to hear more, but the spirit voices began to quiet and their light began to fade. Blinking, the man opened his eyes to find the light of dawn creeping in. He picked himself off the ground and made his way home, determined to test out this theory from beyond the heavenly curtain. 

The sowing season arrived, but the man waited. “What are you doing,” his wife and neighbors cried. But he just shook his head and held firm. Sure enough the first rainy season ended, the crops began to sprout, and a massive hail storm destroyed everyone’s yield. But the farmer, with high hopes, headed out into the fields during the 2nd rainy season, and lo and behold, his crops succeeded. For the first time in years, his luck had turned around. 

Year after year, the farmer returned to the cemetery on Erev Rosh Hashanah to spend the night. And every year, without fail, the spirits would appear, roam the earth, and report their ghostly gossip, much to the farmer's chagrin. 

“So”, the Talmud asks, “do the dead know what transpires in the world of the living?” In true Jewish fashion, the Talmud gives us a delightful and lengthy argument on the matter and no clear answer.  

But Judaism is clear about tzedakah:

כֹּ֚ה אָמַ֣ר יי שִׁמְר֥וּ מִשְׁפָּ֖ט וַעֲשׂ֣וּ צְדָקָ֑ה כִּֽי־קְרוֹבָ֤ה יְשׁוּעָתִי֙ לָב֔וֹא

“Thus said GOD: Observe what is right and do what is just; For soon My salvation shall come…”

So, kick off Shabbat and November with some tzedakah, and maybe give the kids 2 pieces of candy tonight.

Shabbat Shalom