Parshat Noah

Parshat Noah
October 30, 2008/Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan 5769

When Noah and his family emerged from the Ark—they must have come out as deeply traumatized people.

How could they not have been-- they were eyewitnesses to the destruction of the world. They must have heard cries. They must have seen bodies. It must have been more than any human being could emotionally bear.

God offers them, and through them us, a remarkably psychologically insightful comfort. God says:

"For all the days of the Earth
Sowing and reaping,
Cool and warmth,
Summer and winter,
Day and night,
These things will never cease." (Gen 8:22)

On a simple level, God is promising never again to destroy the world. But on a deeper level, God is telling the survivors that they can count on the regularity of nature as they heal and rebuild. God acknowledges that while the work ahead of the will be extremely hard, they can rely and hold onto the unchanging cycles of life.

None of us can truly imagine the depth or breadth of Noah's trauma. Yet, I imagine that most of us have, at some point in our lives, experienced the feeling of the world crashing down around us. We have been lonely, we have been hurt, and we have grieved.

When we are in pain, there is something comforting about things that are regular and familiar. Even though our personal world feels broken, we know that the sun will set and the sun will rise, the seasons will change, and nature will go on in its way. We may be spinning wildly, but the ground below our feet remains rooted. We can grasp onto that fact and we can draw strength from it.

Jewish mourning practices are predicated in this basic idea, that people in pain require regularity and normalcy to help them return to life. The first thing a mourner is required to do, upon returning home from the cemetery, is to eat a meal. In that simple act, they are participating the basic human cycle of huger and eating, just as they have every day of their lives. Similarly, at the end of the seven days of shiva, the mourner must go out and take a walk. They have to see the sky and the sun and other people and growing things. They have to be reminded that world is continuing in its way, and so eventually will they. In its great wisdom, our tradition insists that ordinary things can help to facilitate healing.

I try to imagine the emotions that Noah and his family felt when they looked ahead at the momentous task of rebuilding their lives. They must have felt overwhelmed, terrified, confused. I hope that God's promise brought them some measure of peace.

When we are in pain, when we feel lost or overwhelmed, may we be blessed to be able to grasp hold of something solid—the cycles of the day, of the year, of our lives—and may we find in it the strength to face the challenges that lie ahead of us.

Parshat Beresheet

Parshat Beresheet
October 24, 2008/24 Tishrei 5769

"Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground!" (Genesis 4:10)

A few days ago, we celebrated Simchat Torah, the festival of ending the annual reading of the Torah and the beginning of a new cycle. Consequently, this week we no longer find ourselves wandering in the Desert, but back once again at the Beginning of the World.

One of the most famous accounts from Parshat Beresheet is the story of Cain and Abel. When God favors Abel's offering over that of his brother Cain, the elder brother commits the first murder in human history. When God shows up and asks Cain about the location of Abel, Cain feigns ignorance saying: "I don't know. Am I my brother's keeper?" God responds by calling his bluff: "What have you done? Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground!" Cain is cursed to wander forever as punishment for his crime.

There are voices in the Jewish tradition, which suggest that Cain did not get a fair deal. After all, Cain had no prior experience with death, therefore it seems unjust that God holds him responsible for a crime he didn't even know that he could commit.

One midrash (rabbinic legend) goes even further, it suggests that while Cain really isn't to blame, Someone else is:

"Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai said: This is a difficult thing to say and it is impossible to say it clearly [so I will use a parable]: Once two athletes were wrestling in front of the king. If the king wanted, the two could be separated, but the king didn't want them separated, and one killed the other. The loser cried out as he died: 'Who will get justice for me from the king?' That is why it is written: 'Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground'" (Genesis Rabbah 12:9)

This Midrash places the blame for Abel's death squarely with God. God is compared to an indifferent king, who might have separated the dueling brother's before the bloody end, but failed to do so. Abel's blood isn't crying out to God about Cain's guilt, it's crying out against God, accusing Him of negligence!

What I love about this Midrash is that Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, one of the great sages and mystics of the Jewish tradition, sees no contradiction between his own deep religiosity and a his willingness to accuse God of being unfair. Many of us have internalized the message that being religious means meekly accepting tragedy as "God's will." The Midrash challenges that assumption and teaches us that piety does not mean being a doormat-- crying out at God is sometimes exactly what the religious conscience demands.

Our Tradition grants us permission to be angry at God, to question and to challenge. That is not an expression of lack of piety-- rather, it's the highest embodiment of what it means to be Am Yisrael, the People who Wrestle with God.

Parshat Nitzavim

Parshat Nitzavim

Sept 26, 2008/26 Elul 5768

"I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse-- choose life!" (Deut 30:19)

It is already late on Friday afternoon here in Israel, the close of my second week of this year-long adventure. I have only a few minutes before I will go to celebrate Shabbat with my family in Haifa-- so no deep philosophy from me this week.

Instead, I'm passing on a poem. Rabbi Shawn Fields-Meyer hooked me on a poet named Mary Oliver last year. As I read and re-read her poetry, I find that her words are as profound as any prayer. This is a poem she wrote about the imperative to really choose life, even in the face of death. I think it is a beautiful meditation for heading into this holy, reflective week.

Shanah Tovah,

Adam

When Death Comes

by Mary Oliver

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.