Timeless Torah

You might be enjoying the balmy Florida weather, but in Embarrass, Minnesota, it is 44 degrees below zero. Indeed, all over the country new records have been set for low temperatures, high winds and massive snowstorms. Yet, even as nature paints a picture of desolation, beneath the earth’s surface, the forces of life are already hard at work. This idea is best expressed by the minor holiday of Tu B’Shvat, the Jewish equivalent of National Arbor Day.

This New Year for Trees is celebrated not because man’s destiny depends so much on the tree, but because of the many moral lessons we as individuals can derive from this form of vegetation. In Israel, this day is commemorated by planting new trees, while elsewhere in the world special fruits are eaten, like the dry carob often referred to as bokser. In the Talmud there is a classical story about a carob tree and a man called Choni Hamaagel. One day as Choni was walking along the road he spied an elderly farmer planting a carob tree.

“How many years will it take before the tree you are planting bears fruit?” asked Choni.
“Seventy years,” the farmer replied.
“But,” queried Choni, “How can you possibly expect to live seventy more years and enjoy the fruits of your labor?” To which the old man responded, “When I was born I ate of the carob trees planted by my ancestors. Why should I then not plant so that future generations may eat?” From all this conversation Choni became hungry. He sat down in a cave to eat and afterwards fell asleep. Unlike Rip Van Winkle, Choni did not sleep for twenty years; his nap lasted a full seven decades. When he awoke he saw a man gathering fruit from that very same carob tree. Groggily he asked him, “Are you the same gentleman who planted this carob tree the other day?”

“Oh no,” answered the man, “someone planted this tree seventy years ago.” Choni went into the city and inquired after his son. He was told he was no longer alive, but that his grandson was living. When he finally found his relative he said to him, “I am Choni Hamaagel your grandfather.”

The younger generation laughed and refused to believe. Devastated that he could not communicate with his grandchildren, Choni prayed to G-d that he might die rather than live such a lonely life, unrecognized and unappreciated by his own descendants.
Choni is a tragic figure. But no more than contemporary man, truly the Choni Hamaagel’s of our time. He is the individual forever worried about today’s physical needs but does not prepare for the spiritual future of his children. He does not live, but sleeps for seventy years and then awakens to find his time foolishly wasted. His children are no longer his own, they have become strangers. His grandchildren despise and ridicule him. Though we may feel sympathetic, he alone is to be blamed. As the prophet says, “As you sow, so shall you reap.”