On What We Celebrate, and the Culture It Creates
Rabbi Meyer Laniado
A few months ago, as I was walking out of synagogue, I mentioned to a member of our congregation how excited I was about our upcoming communal siyyum on Shulhan Arukh, Orah Haim. I thought he would say something like, “Yes, that is exciting,” or “What a beautiful accomplishment.” But instead, he asked me a very simple question: “Why?”
I was not expecting that, and I was honestly a little taken aback. I had not really thought much about the “why.” To me, the excitement was intuitive. I had not fully articulated it, even to myself, so I did not yet have a full answer. My gut reaction was that this was not done through hour-long classes, but rather through a few minutes every day at minyan, on Shabbat before we take out the Torah, and at Seuda Shelisheit.
As I thought more about it, I realized that was one aspect, but not the core of my excitement. The scope and content of Shulhan Arukh, Orah Haim, make its completion a real accomplishment. It comprises 697 simanim (sections) and covers the halakhot from the moment a person opens their eyes in the morning through tefillah berakhot, Shabbat, holidays, and the entire rhythm of daily and yearly Jewish life.
But I have finished sefarim before, both on my own and with others, without making a siyyum. Usually, when I finish something, I move on to the next, without much celebration. So, why was this so uniquely exciting for me? Because I was watching a culture take shape.
I realized this one morning when our minyan was running a few minutes late. I was preparing to wish everyone a great day and respect their time. Then a member of the minyan stopped me and said, “Rabbi, no halakha today?” This was from a person who, just a year or two ago, had not been coming to daily minyan. And yet, the daily halakha had become part of his daily rhythm.
It was not only that we had learned halakhot. It was that the learning had become anticipated. It had become missed when it was absent. This was the cultural shift I had been watching unfold over seven years, Torah study becoming part of the rhythm of our minyan, day after day, Shabbat after Shabbat. That is what I wanted to celebrate. And I think that is what a siyyum is really about.
One of the earliest sources that gives us a window into the meaning of a siyyum is the statement of Abaye in the Talmud (Shabbat 118b). His statement appears in a series of teachings in which different rabbis describe the misva they were especially careful with, and for which they hoped to receive reward. The list includes Seuda Shelisheit, tefillin, and sisit.
Then Abaye says, “May reward come to me, for when I would see a young Torah scholar complete his masekhet, I would make a yom tov for the rabbis.” Abaye does not say, “When I finished learning.” He says, “When I saw someone else finish learning.” And, as Rashi notes, the “rabbis” for whom he made the celebration were his students. He was teaching the whole yeshiva what deserves to be celebrated.
Why? Because what we celebrate, what we prize, what we platform, and what we rally around in joy and excitement teaches people what to aspire to, what to value, and what to cherish. That is why we have a siyyum.
That is why the celebration of a siyyum can exempt those in attendance from fasting during the Fast of the Firstborn on the eve of Pesah, and why it can override the practice of not eating meat during the Nine Days. A siyyum takes Torah learning, which could remain behind the scenes, and brings it into the center of communal life.
It says, this is not only something someone learned. This is something we honor and celebrate together. And that is how culture is created, by what we visibly celebrate.
We see this in schools all the time. When a team wins a championship, the excitement in the building can be palpable. When the Knicks were in the playoffs, for example, some schools encouraged students to wear jerseys or team colors. It is because schools understand that shared excitement creates energy, a sense of belonging, and culture. When something is celebrated publicly, students absorb that it matters.
So if Torah study and Torah observance are among a school’s central values, if those are the values the school wants to become part of its students’ inner world, then it has to create visible excitement around them too. What happens when a child comes back from summer vacation and says, “I finished a book of Tanakh,” or “I completed a masekhet,” or “I went to minyan every morning”?
Does the room recognize that something significant happened? Does the school, or the student body, celebrate the win? I have seen this done beautifully. I will never forget seeing a class erupt in joy when they completed a book of the Humash, as if they had just won a championship.
And that is exactly the point. What we celebrate makes an impression on people. It teaches them what to admire. It teaches them what to strive for.
The same is true in our families and in our personal lives. What we celebrate, what we honor, and what we schedule everything else around, those are the values we actually express. Those are the values that shape the culture of our homes. And those are the values by which we will be remembered.
As we enter Elul, on the road toward the High Holidays, we are asked to make an honest accounting, not only of what we believe or what we say we value, but of what actually receives our time, our attention, our energy, and our excitement. We should ask ourselves, what do we celebrate?
