This week previews the undoing of creation.
In the beginning, the Torah asserts, the world was tohu va’vohu - vacuous and chaotic, teeming with possibility and lacking order. The creation story that begins with the famous words “let there be light,” includes six days of creation and culminates in a dynamic pause known as Shabbat, is well known to many of us. What many of us (self included until this week!) may not realize is that the story of the 10 plagues, which concludes in this week’s parsha Bo, is not just a story of escalating tactics, it is a paradigm for the unraveling of creation itself. One of God’s very first acts is to separate the waters above from the waters below. And in the very first plague water becomes blood. Just as the God creates animals to fill the land and the sea, the second, third and fourth plagues send forth an overabundance of those very animals that teem in the water (frogs), on land (lice), and in the sky (locusts), to plague the people. And unspeakably, whereas God creates humans on the 6th day, God takes the first born Egyptians. The parallels are eerie. The plagues were temporary, deliberate and Divinely ordained. The fact that they threaten to return to the world to pre-creation chaos tells us something of what was at stake in Moses’ mission to free the Israelite slaves. But the full impact of this destructive paradigm hit me when I got to the ninth plague, the plague of darkness, whose description brought my studies to a halt: וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהֹוָ֜ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֗ה נְטֵ֤ה יָֽדְךָ֙ עַל־הַשָּׁמַ֔יִם וִ֥יהִי חֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־אֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם וְיָמֵ֖שׁ חֹֽשֶׁךְ׃ The Holy One said to Moshe: Stretch out your hand toward the heavens, and let there be darkness over the land of Egypt, so that they will feel darkness! (Exodus 10:21) The declaration “And let there be darkness” is an exact undoing of the very first seminal words of creation, “Let there be light!” How could anyone, let alone the Holy One, instruct Moses to say “Let there be darkness”? And not just darkness, but a palpable darkness. A darkness that they can feel and touch (וְיָמֵ֖שׁ חֹֽשֶׁךְ׃). A darkness that Ibn Ezra explains was so thick that it made time stand still for the Egyptians, quoting, “The Egyptians had no way of knowing that three days passed except through the Israelites, who had light.” This week has felt like a series of plagues cast upon us, each executive order revealing the newest threat to our well being. We are experiencing a deliberate and expedient unraveling of our already imperfect government, which has created an air of fear and uncertainty. I imagine some of us feel more personally vulnerable than others. But I imagine many, if not most of us, are experiencing this time as scary and destabilizing. And I think that is one of this administration’s goals. But one of our goals is to allow our spirits and our nervous systems to recover from the stress of the week. To reclaim time and allow it to stand still on our terms. Forever and ever, I choose the world of “Yehi Or - Let there be light.” Before the sun sets on this week, I invite you to return your attention to the world of creation. To trees and pets and neighbors, and all the wonderful things that bring order and joy to your life. To invite in the blessings of the new moon of Shevat whose tiny crescent light is waxing in the shabbos sky. To invite in the light of shabbat candles and the deeply needed rest of the 7th day. There have been two refrains playing on repeat in my head all week long.
The first refrain comes from the wisdom of Whitney Houston: “… I decided long ago Never to walk in anyone's shadows If I fail, if I succeed At least I'll live as I believe No matter what they take from me They can't take away my dignity” And second, the words to the equanimity meditation that I shared on Rosh Hashanah. May I be at ease with the changing conditions of life May I allow joy and sorrow to arise and pass away May I open to how it is right now May I be peaceful I am working hard to cleave to these words in a week that has threatened to throw me off daily. … Four days post inauguration and the prospect of four years is dreadful. Even as I have tried to minimize the news reel, to overwhelm executive orders with the din of snowball fights and hot chocolate, the fear has seeped in, and its impact on my soul is wholly unwelcome. On Wednesday, my cousins in Italy texted that they are afraid. Fascism is rising there and everywhere. They worry it feels like 1937. I know some of this is historical trauma (they survived WWII in hiding), but I don’t know how much. I fluctuate between allowing my concern to overwhelm my consciousness and returning to the present tense, to warm soup and kid snuggles. At my installation some 9 years ago, I offered myself to you as a heart of many rooms. And that offer still holds true. We are going to need all of those rooms. There will be room for grief and rage, and also room to get married and dance and sing and name babies and celebrate birthdays and sheer delight. I've been thinking a lot about how to approach these next four years, including how to approach my Friday emails. What I know about myself is that, in my heart of hearts, I am a rabbi, not a politician, public thinker or political scientist. What I do best as a rabbi is teach Torah. I know I don't want to share four years of Torah about Trump. He doesn't deserve that much of our attention. The prospect of four years of Friday emails responding to executive orders, and worse, is unbearable. I don’t think it will serve us, because it's what we're already interfacing with during the rest of the week. So I want to share what you can expect instead in this weekly exchange. Certainly some weeks, like this one, I will try to respond to some of what has transpired, so we can all remember together that we are not alone in this reality. I am witnessing and experiencing this too, alongside you, and some weeks I hope to share ancient wisdom that I hope will soothe you, as it has soothed me. I also expect that the Torah shared here in other weeks, I hope many weeks, will be timeless. This will take effort. I will intentionally be turning our attention elsewhere, to something enduring, something older, something good, something that draws us towards compassion, wonder, joy and connection. This week, a week when the Torah tells us about Pharoah’s callous heart, I can feel my own heart contracting. As this poem Heart by Dorianne Laux permits, I found myself with a quiet heart. A heavy heart. A hurting heart. Yesterday, when it came time to say the blessing for the study of Torah at Parsha and Poetry I found myself unable to get the words out. But as the class spoke the final words, “la’asok b’divrei Torah,” I squeaked out an “amen.” Amen is a word of witness, an affirmation, drawn from the same root as emunah, meaning faith. I am not so naive to tell you to have faith that God/dess will protect us from these powerful evils. But I do think this is a moment to cultivate a steadiness of mind, a spiritual buffer zone for the heart, which is a kind of inner faith in a concept of the Divine who brings you inner strength, boosts your dignity and gives you courage. My morning tender amen reminded me of a teaching in the Jerusalem Talmud (Megilah 1:9). הָעוֹנֶה אָמֵן … אֲרוּכָּה. יַאֲרִיךְ יָמִים בְּטוֹבָה. One who lengthens their amen, lengthens their days for the better. There will be days when we can’t muster the words to say a blessing or share good news. And those are good days to remember to say a long amen, knowing that too is enough to enhance our days for the better; remembering “The heart shifts shape of its own accord—” This too shall pass. May this space, this community, be a place where you cultivate the discipline to bless the good in your life. To witness others and feel seen. To reset each week with a long, slow, heartfelt amen. Let me begin by praying, with all my heart, that the ceasefire actually begins on Sunday.
I pray that both Israeli and Palestinian hostages/prisoners can return home and that we can see this ceasefire through. Blessed are you, God, who frees captives. Please God let there be peace. This has been a disorienting week. Despite more than a year of organizing for a ceasefire and to stop the new Arena in Chinatown, the nearly simultaneous announcements came as surprises. I definitely feel gratitude, joy and relief. There is reason to celebrate. But if I am honest, I also feel wary. My heart doesn't trust it. If tectonic changes can happen overnight for the better, they can also happen for the worse. Strangely, these relatively good announcements have led me to further brace myself for Trump’s inauguration on Monday (and its disgraceful coincidence with MLK Day). As I studied this week’s parsha, Shemot, I found great comfort in beginning the book of Exodus in this political moment. For as long as there have been people organizing themselves into societies, there have been oppressive tyrants. And in response people have cultivated their spiritual lives to build inner strength and collective power to free themselves. Yet I am nervous that under Trump I/we will feel mistakenly powerless. This worry led me to zoom in on a particular moment in this week’s parsha that I want to highlight for all of you. In Exodus 1, the very first chapter, Pharaoh sends a decree to the Hebrew midwives, (sidenote: Were they Hebrews or just midwives to the Hebrews? It’s unclear and significant because they may have been acting on behalf of their people or in solidarity with the Hebrews.) ordering them to kill all of the male babies. Without skipping a beat or even a verse, they defy Pharoah’s instructions. וַתִּירֶ֤אןָ הַֽמְיַלְּדֹת֙ אֶת־הָ֣אֱלֹהִ֔ים וְלֹ֣א עָשׂ֔וּ כַּאֲשֶׁ֛ר דִּבֶּ֥ר אֲלֵיהֶ֖ן מֶ֣לֶךְ מִצְרָ֑יִם וַתְּחַיֶּ֖יןָ אֶת־הַיְלָדִֽים׃ But the midwives held God in awe, and they did not do as the king of Egypt had spoken to them; they let the children live (Exodus 1:17). I am struck by the fact that the text goes on a grammatical whim to describe the yirah, the awesome fear, that enabled these women to defy Pharoah. Their fear of undermining their own spiritual beliefs was so much stronger than their fear of Pharaoh. From the midwives I learned that it's possible to spiritually redirect my fear of a ruler of flesh and blood and to remember that the deeper risk lies in undermining my own spiritual and political convictions, denying my own power. And not only that, but when Pharoah realizes as much, he questions them directly, and they make up an amazing excuse and brazenly lie to his face: וַתֹּאמַ֤רְןָ הַֽמְיַלְּדֹת֙ אֶל־פַּרְעֹ֔ה כִּ֣י לֹ֧א כַנָּשִׁ֛ים הַמִּצְרִיֹּ֖ת הָֽעִבְרִיֹּ֑ת כִּֽי־חָי֣וֹת הֵ֔נָּה בְּטֶ֨רֶם תָּב֧וֹא אֲלֵהֶ֛ן הַמְיַלֶּ֖דֶת וְיָלָֽדוּ׃ The midwives said to Pharaoh: Indeed, not like the Egyptian-women are the Hebrew-women, indeed, they are lively: before the midwife comes to them, they have given birth! (Exodus 1:19) The next four years are daunting and there is reason to be afraid. But what the midwives remind me is that we are not powerless. From the birthing stone to the border wall, we will each be called to defend human dignity and maybe even life itself. Let us remember that the midwives and Torah are on our side. And let us muster the spiritual resolve to do what is within our power. Daniel Berrigan, the Jesuit priest turned anti-war organizer, once wrote: “One cannot level one’s moral lance at every evil in the universe. There are just too many of them. But you can do something; and the difference between doing something and doing nothing is everything.” I have deep faith in our ability to do something, individually and collectively. For this week, dayenu, that is enough. I instinctively find endings a bit sad, especially the end of something delicious. The end of a good book, a great movie, the last bite of pie, the last moments of a trip, the final days of summer, the last shofar blast of Neilah. It's all so beautiful and full and what I have been reading, praying, living towards. But then it’s over and I am left to savor it, crave it, miss it. I can’t get those moments, those laughs, those bites back. I am left to wonder, was I present enough? Was I aware and alive enough? Jewishly we know of this nostalgic ending in the custom of singing songs of deep longing in the darkening room at the end of Shabbat. The third meal can be surprisingly somber. The end of something good is almost tragic. Which is ironic because it's actually not yet over, it's still there. The ooze of blueberry still on the fork awaiting another lick. The quiet search for three stars in the sky, This week we read the parashat Vayechi, the final Torah portion in the book of Genesis. It begins by telling us that Jacob, aka Yisrael, would live for 147 years and these are his final days. Which he spends drawing close to each of his 12 sons and blessing them. The end of our origin story is also the end of our ancestral namesake’s life. The parsha savors the end of his life, and I find myself feeling sad, like its my loss, its my end. Which is why I find such great comfort in the ritual that succeeds the reading of the end of a book of the Torah. The reader recites the words, “Hazak hazak v’nithazek” and then the entire congregation sings them back, “Hazak hazak v’nithazek.” The meaning of these words is manifold, often meaning strength and courage. I can’t help but hear it in the words of India Arie’s song Strength, Courage and Wisdom. The thrice repetition of the word hazak is notable. Twice it appears almost as a command, and the third time in the self-reflexive form, as if to say, “Strength, strength, may you find the strength that is within you!” In my experience, the end is sad even when the next thing is beautiful, something to look forward to. The changing colors of fall, a sip of warm tea, the sequel, the book of Exodus. All the more so when the end is followed by something harder, less pleasant. The inauguration is looming and dreadful. Next week we will read in the Torah about the troubles that occur when a new King arises in ancient Egypt. In this time of endings and beginning again – biblically, politically, ecologically, personally – may we feel the deep blessing that Torah offers us this week, to gather strength to meet the next chapter with courage, curiosity, and compassion. I have many times read the poem Aristotle by Billy Collins, but mostly I dwell in The Beginning, and maybe once I lingered in The Middle. But today let us indulge in The End. He writes, “And this is the end, the car running out of road, the river losing its name in an ocean, the long nose of the photographed horse touching the white electronic line. … This is the final bit thinning away to nothing. This is the end, according to Aristotle, what we have all been waiting for, what everything comes down to, the destination we cannot help imagining, a streak of light in the sky, a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.” May you feel yourself part of the great river losing its name in the ocean of time. May you remember the words of June Jordan, “We are the ones we have been waiting for.” May you feel inspired to keep imagining your destiny. |
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