Inviting G-d To Dinner

Rebecca’s painful pregnancy led her to consult a prophet, who revealed she carried twin ‘giants’ (ge’im) as the Torah describes them. From these two, the sages prophesied, would emerge two brilliant gems: Rebbe and Antoninus (Talmud, Avodah Zarah 11a).

Antoninus was a Roman emperor in the late second century, often mentioned in the Talmud due to his friendship with Rabbi Yehudah, who later became known simply as ‘Rebbe.’ As chief rabbi and prince of the Jewish people under Roman tutelage, Rebbe enjoyed an unusual friendship with the emperor.[1]

The Talmud states that Rebbe taught Jewish ethics to Antoninus and that under Rebbe’s mentorship, Antoninus grew to be pious. These two ‘giants’ were renowned for their immense wealth. Our sages said they were so wealthy that radishes and lettuce never left their table. Both are cool-season crops, yet wealthy people could grow them in the summer, utilizing sophisticated underground grow stations.

Those familiar with this column know that we seek the deeper layers of meaning, the inner stream of the Torah’s words. Why did our sages choose to describe their wealth by the vegetables on their table? Among the many cool-season vegetables, why these specific ones? Why not carrots or broccoli?

The Food Trap
Our sages were not playing coy. Their cryptic words offer deep insight and a profound lesson about our relationship with food. Never be satisfied with radishes. Always add lettuce. What does this mean?

When Adam ate the forbidden fruit, G-d said he would henceforth eat bread by the sweat of his brow. Our sages taught that G-d planned for humanity to eat Heavenly food, like the Manna consumed by the Jews in the desert. Such food would fall from heaven and would not need to be prepared. There would be no need to plow, plant, water, harvest, grind, knead, and bake. It would fall ready-made from  Heaven.

On a spiritual level, we would have no food cravings. Not because food would be bland, we would be able to taste any flavor we could imagine, as was the case with the Manna in the desert. We would not crave food because our body wouldn’t sink so low as to crave physical substances. Our only focus would be spiritual sustenance. We would crave study, understanding, enlightenment, insight, inspiration, and intellectual stimulation. We would spend our day basking in Heavenly delight, focused entirely on knowing G-d.

This is what life will look like when the Moshiach comes, but for now, we are stuck with the current system. Ever since Adam succumbed to the enticement of the forbidden fruit, we have been mired in the temptations of physical delights. Sizzling steaks, fine wines, and delectable desserts excite us, leaving us to salivate like dogs panting over their bowls—a state rather shameful for a human being.

This is why our sages tell us that the mealtime is wartime, and by the tip of the sword must we eat our bread. We must constantly battle against our base nature, which is inclined toward desiring food for its culinary experience. A holy person eats for the sake of health and nurture and gets on with the nobler aspects of life. We, broken vessels, turn our mealtime into a destination. We eat for its own purpose. We must fight against this tendency. Fight off base temptations and respond to a higher authority.

Elevating the Meal
Two tools can help us in this fight. The first is to share Torah thoughts during our meals; the second is to share our meals with those who are less fortunate than us. In this vein, our sages taught that those who prolong their mealtimes will live a long life. They did not suggest that we eat large meals and stuff our stomachs to prolong our time at the table. They meant that we make the meals longer because we spend more time studying Torah than eating (Berachot 64b–65a and commentaries ad loc.)

When there is food on the table and our base selves want to dig in, yet we rein it in and focus on the Torah instead, we make substantial headway in our battle to eat like a human rather than a beast. When we serve our meal, but rather than eat and run, we stay at the table while food remains in the serving dishes, in case someone hungry appears, we make headway in our battle. Our baser instincts want to eat more or run, but we compel ourselves to sit and wait for the opportunity to feed someone in need.

This is another way of saying that we are inviting G-d to dinner. Everyone invited to dinner gets to eat. G-d’s portion is the Torah that we study and the food we give to the poor. With G-d at our table, we are not just eating to fill our stomachs and satisfy our taste buds. We are eating to give G-d His due.

Sweetening the Judgement
Every time we sit at the table, the prosecuting angels in Heaven remind G-d that we, descendants of Adam and Eve, continue to succumb to similar cravings. They look at us salivating over our meals and complain that we are just like our primordial ancestors. G-d hears their allegations and responds with judgment. In the words of the kabbalists, we need to sweeten the judgment.

When we utilize our time at the table to share thoughts of Torah and to wait for guests who are hungrier than we are, the judgments are sweetened. Indeed, the moment someone begins to share a Torah thought at the table, a groan might ripple through the diners. ‘This isn’t a Torah class,’ they might complain. ‘This is social hour! Everything has its time and place. Why are you infringing on our space? But that groan comes from our inner animals, who are drawn to the food as animals are drawn to prey. This is precisely the resistance we must overcome to bypass the prosecuting angels and sweeten the judgment.

The same applies to those who have finished eating and would like to run to their next endeavor. Yet, they force themselves to stay at the table a little longer in case someone in need shows up. This is how we sweeten the judgment. Indeed, our sages taught that our table atones today, as the altar did in days of old.

Rebbe and Antoninus both sweetened the judgment with prolonged mealtimes. Rebbe did it by sharing Torah thoughts. Antoninus did it by sharing with the poor.

Radishes and Lettuce
This is what our sages alluded to when they used the cryptic phrase, their table never went without radishes and lettuce.

Bitter radishes represent the judgment that is triggered every time we sit down at the table. There is no table without bitter judgment. But Rebbe and Antoninus, each in their own way, added lettuce to the radishes. They sweetened the judgment. How is this implied by serving lettuce?

The Aramaic word for lettuce is chasa. The Talmud insists that we eat lettuce at the Seder table to remember that chas rachmana alan—G-d had mercy on us. Chasa is a derivative of chas, which means mercy. Additionally, the numeric value of chasa (when including the number of letters in the word) is the same as the numeric value of the Hebrew word chesed, which means kindness.

When our sages said Rebbe and Antoninus had radishes and lettuce, they meant that they channeled G-d’s kindness, each in their respective ways, to sweeten the bitter radishes of judgment.[2]

[1] Historians point either to Antoninus Pius or to Marcus Aurelius, both of whom fit the profile and timing.

[2] This essay is based on commentary from Korban He’ani on Genesis 25:23.