When the Land Takes its Rest (Nati Passow)
When the Land Takes its Rest
Shabbat, Shmita, and Yovel and Their Implications for
Our Social, Economic, and Ecological Viability
Nati Passow
And G!d planted a garden eastward in Eden, and there put the earthling (Adam) whom G!d had formed. And out of the ground (adamah) G!d made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, the Tree of Life also in the midst of the garden, and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil...And G!d took the Adam and put him into the Garden of Eden to work it and to protect it. And G!d commanded the Adam, saying, “Of every tree of the garden you may freely eat; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, you shall not eat of it. For in the day that you eat of it, you will surely die.”
Genesis 2:8-15
Six years you shall sow your land and gather in its yield; but in the seventh year, you shall let it rest and lie fallow. Let the needy among your people eat of it, and what they leave, let the wild beasts eat of it. You shall do the same with your vineyards and olive groves.
Exodus 23:10-11
This year, 5782 in the Hebrew calendar, is a Shmita (Sabbatical) year. This ancient practice dictates that throughout the year all land shall rest and lie fallow, any food that does grow is ownerless and available to everyone, and at the year’s conclusion, all debt is forgiven. While Shmita may seem on the surface to be irrelevant to most people, especially non-farmers living outside of the Land of Israel, over the years of studying the Jewish agricultural laws, I have come to understand it as one of the most central and important components of our tradition. In order to appreciate the full potency of Shmita and its transformative relevance today, we need to position it in the larger context of the biblical perspective on agriculture, and see its place in the wider Jewish agricultural blueprint.
Cursed is the Ground for Your Sake
In the creation story in Genesis, G!d forms humans from the earth and places them in a garden, to work it and to protect it. The humans are to be stewards of the land, caretaking it while also enjoying its abundance. All that is asked is that they show a minute amount of restraint and refrain from eating from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. After a brief attempt at living out this divine vision, the humans partake of the forbidden food, and are subsequently exiled from the garden. In that moment, their relationship to the earth and its bounty is forever changed.
Cursed is the ground for your sake; in suffering shall you eat of it all the days of your life. Thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to you; and you shall eat the grass of the field. By the sweat of your brow shall you eat bread, until you return to the ground; for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.
Genesis 3:17-19
One way of reading this story, and in fact the entire book of Genesis, is as an allegory of the agricultural revolution, the process of humans largely transitioning from migratory hunters and gatherers to stationary farmers, permanently residing in ever growing villages, towns, cities, and states. As we make our way through the subsequent chapters of Genesis, we see this interpretation reinforced. Adam and Eve’s farmer child Cain kills his shepherd brother Abel, a common result of agricultural expansion and conquest. Their descendants work with an increasingly wide range of metals, work that was only made possible through the permanent settlement afforded by agriculture. By the time we arrive at Noah, the rabbis teach that he invented new tools for farming, and that he helped to remedy the schism between humans and the land that resulted from the exile from Eden.
If we accept this reading of the text, it begs the question: why is farming fundamentally a cursed act? Are humans destined to have an adversarial relationship with the land instead of one of mutual care and benefit? Why might the text be encouraging us to think more critically about the implications of the transition into agriculture?
Some potential answers are revealed as we make our way deeper into the book of Genesis and follow the lineage of a family of migratory shepherds—people who were living on the literal margins of the emerging agricultural empires of Egypt and Babylonia.
Agriculture promises abundance and enables division of labor, specialization, innovation, arts and culture, and many other benefits. It allows for the development of much of what we consider advanced civilization. Yet it also encourages populations to increase and become progressively more dependent on an extractive model of feeding people, requiring additional land and resources to sustain the growing numbers. While exerting this amount of control over our food system might often yield a surplus, the process is also subject to drought and blight leading to famine, hunger, starvation, and ultimately war and conflict. Perhaps the text frames agriculture as a curse because the view from the margins allowed the early Israelites to remain skeptical of farming as they viewed the injustices embedded in the agricultural societies they experienced.
We see some of these negative implications of agriculture clearly in the story of Joseph, son of a shepherd who is sold into slavery yet fortuitously becomes the Pharaoh’s viceroy. Pharaoh asks him to interpret some disturbing dreams, and Joseph explains that they foretell seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine. He advises Pharaoh to tax the population during the time of abundance and take control of the nation’s surplus.
Once the famine hits, it takes just two years for the entire population to turn over its land, its money, and its animals to the palace in exchange for food and seed. By the end of the second year, they sell even their bodies to the Pharaoh.
Buy us and our farmland for food, so that we and our farmland will be slaves to Pharaoh, and give [us] seed, so that we live and not die, and the soil will not lie fallow.” So Joseph bought all the farmland of the Egyptians for Pharaoh, for the Egyptians sold, each one his field, for the famine had become too strong for them, and the land became Pharaoh's.
Genesis 47: 18-20
In an agricultural society, those who control the surplus exert tremendous power.
Joseph’s estranged family, shepherds living in Canaan, are not exempt from this famine. They too make their way to Egypt. With Joseph’s assistance, they settle in Goshen and live happily as foreigners because of their special relationship with those in power. But after Joseph and the Pharaoh die, and after the Israelites grow and become more numerous, the new Pharaoh enslaves this population he now considers a threat. For the first time, the Israelites are fully immersed in an agricultural society, and they experience first hand the oppression and exploitation that is so often a defining feature of it.
Not Like Egypt
After many generations, the Israelites are freed from bondage and leave Egypt to wander in the desert for forty years, and ultimately, to re-enter and conquer the land of Canaan. During this forty-year period, the wandering Israelites subsist primarily on Manna, a food source that appears each day without human intervention, meets the needs of each person, and yet cannot be stored or hoarded. In a sense, this forty-year period represents a reversion to the Edenic pre-agricultural way of life in which humans live off the abundance of wild growing foods and serves as a palate cleanser after being embedded in an oppressive and exploitative agrarian society for so many generations.
As the Israelites make their way through the desert and are preparing to reenter the land and build a robust society, they develop a moral and ethical code by which to collectively and individually live. A core component of this new code is an agricultural blueprint that contains unique and detailed guidance for growing techniques, land management, and equitable distribution of the harvests. For the first time, the Israelites will become a nation of farmers, but underlying this transformation is the memory of their experience in Egypt. In the Torah, we are instructed to not oppress the stranger, having ourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt, thirty-six times—more than any other phrase. This becomes the moral framework for the agricultural society we will build.
When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, you shall not go over it again; it shall be for the stranger, for the orphan, and for the widow. You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I am commanding you to do this thing.
Deuteronomy 24:21-22
This agricultural blueprint includes the practices of leaving the gleanings and corners of the field for the landless to come and collect, and tithing from the harvest for the poor and the priestly class (the latter of whom, in a power-limiting practice, are forbidden from owning land). It also instructs us to give thanks before and after consuming foods, take the first fruits as an offering to the Temple, and treat workers and animals humanely.
Most radically, it instructs us to revert to a way of life in which we do not seek to create, repair, or work for one day out of every seven; a day in which all members of our community, Jewish and non-Jewish, human and animal, are given the opportunity for sacred rest. This rhythm of six and one is expanded into a cycle of seven years, with Shmita, a year of non-farming, as its pinnacle. Shmita, in turn, fractals out once again into a forty-nine year period of seven cycles of seven years, culminating with the Yovel (Jubilee), a year in which all land returns to its ancestral origin, all slaves are freed, and liberty is proclaimed throughout the land. These practices are preceded, once again, by a reminder that our experience as strangers in the land of Egypt should serve as a moral driver:
You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.
Six years you shall sow your land and gather in its yield; but in the seventh year, you shall let it rest and lie fallow. Let the needy among your people eat of it, and what they leave, let the wild beasts eat of it. You shall do the same with your vineyards and olive groves.
Six days you shall do your work, but on the seventh day you shall rest; in order that your ox and your donkey may have rest, and that your bondsman, and the stranger, may be refreshed.
Exodus 23:9-12
The contrast with Egypt is not only a moral one. The text also explains how Canaan itself and its natural cycles are significantly different. Annual flooding of the Nile in Egypt allowed for the creation of vast irrigation channels, thereby removing one of the main limiting factors in agriculture—scarcity of water. But the land of Canaan is different; it is dependent on rain in order to produce, and the rain itself is an indicator of the society’s collective moral well-being:
For the land that you are about to enter and possess is not like the land of Egypt from which you have come. There the grain you sowed had to be watered by your own labors, like a vegetable garden; but the land you are about to cross into and possess, a land of hills and valleys, soaks up its water from the rains of heaven... If, then, you obey the commandments that I enjoin upon you this day, loving the Divine, Holy One and serving G!d with all your heart and soul, I will grant the rain for your land in season, the early rain and the late. You shall gather in your new grain and wine and oil — I will also provide grass in the fields for your cattle — and thus you shall eat your fill.
Deuteronomy 11:10-15
In other words, the viability of the ancient Israelite agricultural system is dependent on the society’s ability to live out this moral and ethical code. If they do not, the rains will not come in their proper time and the society will suffer and collapse. This agricultural blueprint centers the needs of the most vulnerable, encourages gratitude and generosity, honors cycles of sacred rest, and puts limits on power. It serves as a preemptive response to the injustices embedded in so many agricultural societies. This stands in stark contrast to the dominant agricultural empires of the region in that it understands that for an agricultural society to truly flourish and thrive, it must ensure that justice and equity are designed into its systems. Instead of exerting power and domination over the land, the Israelites are to enter into a deep relationship with it, more akin in certain ways to the stewardship model found in the Garden of Eden.
Cycles of Sacred Rest
If we understand the story of the exile from the Garden and the subsequent events in Genesis as the story of the agricultural revolution, then Shabbat, Shmita, and Yovel can be seen as potent cultural literacy and preservation tools to keep the memory and knowledge of the pre-agricultural way of life alive, while simultaneously establishing structures that address some of the most significant social and economic dangers found in other agricultural societies.
Despite the fact that humans have lived as hunter-gatherers for 90% of our existence, the story of most non-farming societies is that they eventually assimilate into the dominant agrarian culture. The Israelites, being consciously skeptical of agriculture because of their view from the margins and experience in Egypt, develop Shabbat, Shmita, and Yovel as a set of practices that enables them to adapt and take on farming, while simultaneously supporting the most vulnerable, keeping the memory of Eden alive, and retaining a unique identity among an increasingly homogenizing world.
The fractal-based practices of Shabbat, Shmita, and Yovel are the most radical elements of the Jewish agricultural blueprint. They challenge some of the most fundamental assumptions of agricultural economies, both ancient and contemporary, such as notions of private property, the idea that the land and animals are here to serve humans, and the idea that limitless accumulation of land and wealth is desirable (and for those fortunate enough, should be passed down from generation to generation). As we delve into the specifics of each, as well as their larger philosophical implications, we can see how they actually point back to the pre-agricultural revolution vision for humanity in the Garden of Eden. They are essential anchors in creating an agricultural society that has the structural and spiritual tools in place to remain viable endlessly, the truest definition of sustainability.
Shabbat, the weekly palace in time as Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel famously described it, is in many ways taken for granted at this point. Even in our relentless capitalist and consumption-driven economy, there is an expectation of at least one day off from work each week, if your financial status allows. Influenced by our consumer culture, however, weekends are often just as busy and draining as work days, and for many people, there is no respite from the ongoing demands of capitalism.
At the time that Shabbat was presented to the Israelites, it was quite radical that a society would organize itself so that all members, rich and poor, native and foreigner, human and animal, could enjoy a day of complete rest each week. And throughout Jewish history, Shabbat has been the centerpiece of how Jews make sacred time the pinnacle of each week. A weekly cessation from work for all members of a community drastically flattens the social hierarchies.
Life can only be perfected through the affording of a breathing space from the bustle of everyday life. The individual shakes himself free from ordinary weekday life at short and regular intervals-on every Shabbat…What Shabbat achieves regarding the individual, Shmita achieves with regard to the nation as a whole.
Introduction to “The Sabbath of the Land”
Rav Abraham Isaac Kook; 20th Century
The Shmita year is a complete rejection of agriculture. It is a year in which people cannot actively grow food. Instead, they must live off the abundance of the land without human intervention. Moreover, they must take down the fences around their fields and release claims of ownership over land and any debt they are holding. It is a year in which all living beings have equal access to the same resources, and those resources are treated as commons. The food that does grow on its own has a unique sacred status and must be treated differently than produce in other years, cultivating a sense of reverence and intentionality in the population. Furthermore, the release of debts at the culmination of the Shmita year ensures that those who are struggling economically are protected from falling deeper and deeper into poverty. Shmita is a year in which wealth cannot be hoarded, and rich and poor eat at the same table.
Every fifty years, the Yovel serves as a massive economic and social reset. As the Israelites conquered Canaan, each tribe (with the exception of the priestly tribe of Levi) was given land, which was subsequently divided and distributed to the different families. Over the course of forty-nine years, the land could be bought, sold, and traded. But in the fiftieth year, a shofar would be sounded throughout the land and all property would revert to its original family. Additionally, all slaves and indentured servants would be freed.
This practice brings one of the core aspects of agriculture into sharper focus. As hunter-gatherers, humans live in a similar way to all other animals—each day tasked with securing enough food for our immediate needs. Because hunter-gatherers are migratory, moving with the seasons and the availability of food and water, accumulation of material wealth was limited. Anthropologists teach that these non-agricultural societies were much more egalitarian than their farming counterparts, and that people worked on average two to four hours a day to meet their basic needs. As we become farmers, we remove ourselves from a subsistence lifestyle and transition into a human-designed system that theoretically gives us much more control over our food sources.
As a human-designed system, agricultural economies need certain protections in place in order to ensure justice, equity, and long-term viability. One of the greatest threats to a society is unchecked disparities of wealth in which the vast majority of resources are owned and controlled by a small percentage of the population. We see in both ancient and modern contexts that when this is the case, violence and war are often a result. In fact, we have seen land reform and wealth redistribution used as strategies to end modern conflicts and civil wars in places that experienced these types of disparities. Through both Shmita and Yovel, these strategies are built into the system, thereby reducing the likelihood of conflict and violence.
On a philosophical level, Shabbat, Shmita, and Yovel have enormous implications, and when taken into a modern context, challenge some of the most fundamental assumptions of our current extractive capitalist economy. As Shabbat does on a weekly basis, Shmita on a much more profound level invites us to reconsider our relationship to work, productivity, money, and consumption. After six years of doing, we rejoice in a year of simply being.
Yet another reason: in order that they should not always be preoccupied with working the soil to provide for their material needs. For in this one year, they would be completely free. The liberation from the yoke of work would give them the opportunity for studying Torah and wisdom. The unlettered (illiterate) will be occupied with crafts and building and supplying these needs in the Land of Israel. Those endowed with special skills will invent new methods in this free time for the benefit of the world.
Sefer Habrit, Behar
Rabbi Zvi Hirsch Kalischer; 19th Century
What would happen if all of the architects, engineers, builders, and developers had to take a year off every seven years? What new ideas would emerge from that process? How might our collective societal priorities shift if Shabbat, Shmita, and Yovel were adopted as universal practices?
So Shmita can be seen as a time when we rehearse, for one year, what it would be like, what it would feel like, for us to live a life of “enoughness” (sova), when we were able to pursue—and be blessed with—the right satisfiers to meet the right needs. In the process, at the end of the Shmita year, we would know where we fall short—in ourselves and in our systems. Through trying to live “as if” the world of reciprocated fullness and fulfillment is here, through trying to fill our needs efficiently with appropriate satisfiers, we will learn to recognize “enough.” We will learn, as a society, where we and our systems fail in the pursuit of sova, and we will learn more about what we need to do to build a world of goodness and plenty.
Rabbi Nina Beth Cardin
On a personal level, how might you be transformed by spending this year doing less and being more? In the words of the Nap Ministry, How can you be useless to capitalism today? Disrupt and push back against a system that views you as a machine. You are not a machine. You are a divine human being.
Shabbat, Shmita, and Yovel give us a glimpse of what life in the Garden could have been. But more than that—they invite us to consider a different model of existence today, one that values rest, ensures that the needs of all are met, and holds that we must approach our relationship with the earth and its resources with a mindset of reverence, stewardship, and mutualism rather than domination and extraction. As a species, we are in a time of great transition–will it be reactionary or forward thinking? Throughout the remainder of this Shmita year, let us slow down, make time to envision how these practices and their animating values might manifest in our personal and communal lives, and begin to chart a new path forward.
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Nati Passow has been a leader in the Jewish environmental movement for the past two decades. He currently works as Operations Manager for Dayenu: A Jewish Call to Climate Action. In 2005 he co-founded and served as Executive Director of the Jewish Farm School for 15 years, overseeing hundreds of programs for children, college students, and adults at the intersection of regenerative agriculture, food justice, and Jewish traditions. Nati has also been an Associate Professor of Sustainable Food Systems at Temple University. When not working, he can be found biking, tending his garden, and sharing food with family and friends in West Philadelphia.
This article is part of our Winter 2021 collection, Shmita Now, guest-edited by Yaira Robinson.
