Ḥasidic mystical theology, combined with the ḥasidic tendency to invest minor details of custom with religious significance, led Ḥasidim to view ritual objects not invested with sanctity by halakhah—kiddush cups, seder plates, the decorations on the collars of prayer shawls, and so forth—as imbued with kabbalistic symbolism. Ḥasidic craftsmen then began to make these items with this symbolism in mind. In an interview with Alan Brill, Batsheva Goldman-Ida, the author of a recent book on this subject, explains:

The reason behind this radical move of investing objects with holiness is rooted in a general ḥasidic approach of “worship through the mundane.” This approach was very much part of early Ḥasidism and is generally attributed to [the movement’s founder], the Baal Shem Tov. . . .

The most important [style of] kiddush cup is the epl-bekher, or apple-shaped cup, whose form was designed by the Maggid of Mezrich [Rabbi Dov Ber, an early ḥasidic leader, ca. 1700-1772], according to tradition. The apple-form is symbolic of the Sh’khinah [or divine presence], as the “rose among thorns” which is “surrounded by five petals” as described in the opening pages of the Zohar . . .

The Ḥasid is required to hold the cup upright in his right hand—which represents the sfirah (emanation) of compassion—with all five fingers. . . . The apple-shaped cup is engraved with a winding chain with generally three leaves and a trefoil base. Over time, the petals underneath the cup were increased to thirteen, corresponding to the thirteen attributes of divine mercy, or to 26, corresponding to the numerical value of the Tetragrammaton. The finial at the top is sometimes in the form of an olive and other times in the form of a dove with outspread wings, both representing the “assembly of Israel,” [a kabbalistic term of art for the divine presence].

If Iran succeeds in obtaining nuclear weapons, the war in Gaza, let alone the protests on college campuses, will seem like a minor complication. Jonathan Schachter fears that this danger could be much more imminent than decisionmakers in Jerusalem and Washington believe. In his view, Israel seems to be repeating the mistake that allowed it to be taken by surprise on Simchat Torah of 2023 and Yom Kippur of 1973: putting too much faith in an intelligence concept that could be wrong.

Israel and the United States apparently believe that despite Iran’s well-documented progress in developing capabilities necessary for producing and delivering nuclear weapons, as well as its extensive and ongoing record of violating its international nuclear obligations, there is no acute crisis because building a bomb would take time, would be observable, and could be stopped by force. Taken together, these assumptions and their moderating impact on Israeli and American policy form a new Iran concept reminiscent of its 1973 namesake and of the systemic failures that preceded the October 7 massacre.

Meanwhile, most of the restrictions put in place by the 2015 nuclear deal will expire by the end of next year, rendering the question of Iran’s adherence moot. And the forces that could be taking action aren’t:

The European Union regularly issues boilerplate press releases asserting its members’ “grave concern.” American decisionmakers and spokespeople have created the unmistakable impression that their reservations about the use of force are stronger than their commitment to use force to prevent an Iranian atomic bomb. At the same time, the U.S. refuses to enforce its own sanctions comprehensively: Iranian oil exports (especially to China) and foreign-currency reserves have ballooned since January 2021, when the Biden administration took office.

Israel’s response has also been sluggish and ambiguous. Despite its oft-stated policy of never allowing a nuclear Iran, Israel’s words and deeds have sent mixed messages to allies and adversaries—perhaps inadvertently reinforcing the prevailing sense in Washington and elsewhere that Iran’s nuclear efforts do not present an exigent crisis.