Parashat Zachor: On Doubt

This week I had the experience of doubt. I had to make a big decision, and I kept coming to a certain conclusion and then doubting it and questioning it, giving me a sinking, uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. But wait, the doubt kept saying. What if you are making a terrible mistake? Maybe the other way is better? I noticed how corrosive the doubt was. When I was under its attack, I was restless and distracted, unable to focus or be present to what was going on around me, unable to engage in the precious moments of right now with full heart and passion, trapped in a wearying, immobilizing loop in my brain.

This Shabbat before Purim we remember Amalek, the eternal enemy of God and the Jewish people. It is often noted that the gematria, the Hebrew numerical value, of the name Amalek, is the same as the gematria of the word safek, doubt. Amalek stands for doubt, the gnawing unsureness that robs us of the ability to act with strength and whole-heartedness.

The Torah says that Amalek attacked us while we were weak and exhausted, in a period of transition out of slavery, on the beginning of a path, baderekh. That is how doubt operates. It comes at us when we are in some transition, not yet secure and confident of our path. The people of Israel finally screwed up the courage and faith to make a change and leave Egypt, a very difficult thing to do, but they took the leap of faith, and then, just as they are beginning to walk on their toddler legs of faith, boom, Amalek attacks; they are hit with doubt. Yes, God saved us from Egypt and we should follow Him, but what is happening now with this other nation attacking us? Maybe He has abandoned us? Maybe that Egypt thing was just an accident? Just at the beginning of any path, when we are still not sure of ourselves, that is when doubt strikes.

And when it strikes, it has a cooling off power. The rabbis read the Torah’s term for Amalek’s approach, asher korkha baderekh, literally, “who happened upon you on the way” as related to the word kor, cold. What Amalek did was throw cold water on the people’s enthusiasm for this God project. Whatever fervor and trust they had built for this path was dampened; they became that much less clear and whole-hearted. We can feel how that happens to us. We have some grand beautiful scheme, some pie in the sky belief, and then someone comes along, or our own doubt comes along, and begins to poke holes in it, to doubt, to question, to be skeptical. Afterwards, even if we continue on that path, we are cooled down; we are missing the spark and the excitement. That is what doubt does.

The Purim story, too, includes the theme of doubt. In a pivotal scene of the Megillah in chapter four, Mordecai sends Esther a message that she should approach the king to advocate for her people. What is her reaction? DOUBT. She doesn’t disagree with him. She is just worried, doubting whether she can be successful in the venture given the normal workings of the kingship. Mordecai replies with sureness that can only come from total faith. He has no doubts. He knows that God will make certain things happen. It is just a question of through whom. And so, in the face of this sureness, this confidence, this faith, Esther agrees to approach the king. But she asks for one other thing -- that all the people fast with her for three days; if she is going to do this despite her doubt, she needs support; she needs to feel the strength of the community’s faith and resolve.

The people’s battle with Amalek and our own struggles with doubt, are never easy. When the people are first attacked by Amalek, they actually begin to lose. Doubt is strong. It wends its way into our hearts and weakens us. What finally turns the battle around are Mohe’s upraised hands, a symbol of faith in the heavens above, of a power beyond the realistic doubts of this world.

This Shabbat, when we remember Amalek, we can also acknowledge our own struggles with doubt, and, like Esther and Moshe, gird ourselves with faith and trust to continue on the path ahead of us.

Parashat Mishpatim: The Vulnerable

Looking through the laws of Parashat Mishpatim, what strikes me this year is how many of them have to do with protecting the vulnerable.

The whole orientation is in the direction of the vulnerable, which is why the collection starts with slaves and maidservants -- not the rights of the master regarding their use, but the rights of the slaves and maidservants to be freed at some point and to be well cared for and not mistreated. The orientation is decidedly toward the oppressed, the vulnerable, the less fortunate. Then, later, we are enjoined to be kind and not mistreat the foreigner or stranger in your land as well as the widow and orphan. God hears their cries. And you should not lend a poor person with interest and be careful about returning his collateral garment. Again, God listens to these hurts because He is fundamentally a compassionate, merciful God. That is His essence, the role model for our own kindness.

So I know these laws are aimed at building a certain type of society that cares deeply about those less fortunate, and I know that we have a lot of work to do concretely in that regard.

But I also want to apply it to our internal climates, the way we treat ourselves and the most vulnerable parts of our own psyches. I am talking about the parts of each of us that we are not proud of, that we often try to push down and away, that we consider petty and overly sensitive, the parts of us that are so easily hurt by something, by some trigger from an old wound, by a perceived snub or insult, the part that feels raw and wounded deep inside, that seems to us like a black hole of neediness -- the parts that are the most vulnerable pieces of us.

What do we do with them? We bury them or try to get rid of them, to fix them, to override them with good generous deeds that mask their neediness. The one thing we don’t tend to do is what God does in this parsha-- simply to listen to their cries with compassion. To actually hear them. To actually hear that they are in pain. To allow them to be vulnerable and treat them accordingly, with love and compassion and care, not judgment.

It feels to me like part of the revolution that Judaism offered the world and continues to offer the world is this orientation toward the vulnerable. It begins inside, and it feels clear that when it begins inside, there is so much compassion that pours outside, too. May we know how to hear and treat the vulnerable inside and outside of us.

Parashat Yitro: Getting Stronger

Vayehi kol hashofar holekh vehazek me’od. The sound of the shofar blast on Mount Sinai is described as getting stronger and stronger. Rashi points out that this is a sign of its divine origin; when a human being makes a sound, the sound gradually gets weaker and weaker; only God’s sound keeps increasing in strength.

We know about this gradual dying down of strength and energy, this weakening over time. We work hard, put our energy into things, and gradually, we become wiped out, exhausted. We peter out.

In the face of this human tendency toward exhaustion, it feels important to remember the indefatigable neverending divine energy, to feel its existence in the world, and perhaps sometimes the possibility of its existence inside of us.

Because the pasuk does not end by saying that God’s shofar got stronger and stronger. The next phrase speaks of a human being, Moshe. “Moshe would speak and God would answer him with the sound.” Rashi explains that when Moshe told the people commandments, God gave Moshe extra strength and capacity in order to be really heard.

In other words, when we align ourselves with God’s work in the world, when we make ourselves into vessels for His words and Presence, then that ever increasing source of divine energy flows through us. Our voices, too, instead of fading out from exhaustion are able to grow in strength and confidence.

We are mostly identified with our small human selves, those small selves that work in the world and experience continual limitations. These limitations, too, are important and have something to teach us about letting go and not doing it all and very much not being divine. But we also have a little bit of the divine inside us, a tiny littel pure point that sustains us and nourishes us and, like the Eternal Light, does not go out.

I think some of our exhaustion comes from not acknowledging this capacity, from not allowing ourselves to feel it and trust it and surrender to it, from constantly fighting to control everything with our limited human capacities and not leaving any room for the divine to enter. It is partly the fight to control that exhausts us. Moshe spoke and God answered him with the limitless voice of the divine. He allowed himself to become part of the flow.

Parashat Bo: Not Finishing the Baking

We feel that everything needs to be done before we can be free, before we can rest and have peace and “get there,” wherever we are trying to get. We have to first complete our to do list. Then we will have earned peace and maybe even redemption. But we are not there yet. And then tomorrow it turns out we have another to do list and so it never ends. We never get there. We are never free. We are never really at peace.

The Israelites left Egypt with a basic task unfinished -- their bread had not finished rising.

And yet, they did drop what they were doing -- midstream, totally unfinished -- to turn towards freedom. Freedom and peace and revelation and redemption -- it turns out these are not things we have to wait to get until we are done. They come to us precisely when we turn away from the to do list, allow something to not be completed, turn away towards the light of divine presence in the moment.

From Moshe, too, we learn about this ability to drop a task. Indeed, it is probably the reason he was chosen for the job. He was in the middle of watching sheep -- surely a task that requires constant vigilance -- when he noticed the strange sight of the burning bush and turned aside to look. It is this turning aside that led God to call to him. Ah, this is the one, one who knows how to stop midstream and be present to the miraculous.

Every Shabbat we get this opportunity, too. The Torah says that for 6 days of the week we should work and “you should do all of your work.” And after that you have Shabbat for God. But wait -- how do I complete my work in six days? I am usually not at all done! How can the Torah command such a thing? The midrash answers that it doesn’t mean that one should actually finish the work, but rather that you should have a mindset as if it were completed. You come into Shabbat and that’s it. Whatever is done is done, and in your mind, there is absolutely nothing left undone. The bread may be only partly baked, but you are not worrying about it.

This is freedom. You are not worrying about whether the bread is finished baking. Your mind is suddenly free to be present, to behold the divine in the moment at hand. You can see the miraculous bush right there before you. Maybe it is you? Maybe it is your unknown ability to survive and thrive even in circumstances you thought would consume you, maybe it is your ability to live even when that essential task of bread baking is not completed, maybe it is the knowledge of a life force beyond your comprehension that you can only get a glimpse of when you let go of doing all the time, when you let go of having to finish, of having to accomplish, of having to control the situation, and allow yourself to follow God, to go with the flow into an unknown terrifying desert existence with only trust to hold on to, not even your usual bread.

I don’t know. We do need to bake bread and finish the job and do things in the world. But maybe we also need to cultivate inside ourselves the ability to let go of finishing sometimes, to let go of control, to let go of the sense that only our doing will bring us to the peace and freedom we desire. Maybe we need to stop and allow it to come. Maybe it will only come when we are able to not finish the job, when we know that it is ok to let that happen?

Parashat Shmot: I will be what I will be

Eheyeh asher Eheyeh. I will be what I will be. This is how God tells Moshe to introduce Him to the people of Israel this week.

This name of God reminds me of the song:

Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera

The implication of “I will be what I will be” is that God does what He does and human beings can’t predict it or fathom it. God and His will are beyond us. It seems to us that Egyptian enslavement is a mistake, a terrible tragedy, but God will be what He will be, and it is not really ours to understand it.

The appropriate reaction to this is total surrender of one’s will to God’s will, admitting that we do not really control things, letting go and joining the flow and the will of God’s plan.

There is freedom in this relinquishment of control, and there is a kind of peace and relaxation as we admit that the world is beyond us.

But there can also be a lot of anxiety. If God simply is what He is, without any relation to us, then we are left unsteady and groundless; our lives are unpredictable and we have no one to rely on.

And so the parsha also offers another interpretation of the word Eheyeh. Moshe struggles with taking on his mission. He doubts he is capable. So God says to him: Ki Eheyeh imakh. “But I will be with you.” In this topsy turvy unpredictable world, I will be what I will be and you won’t understand it, but you should still know one thing --- I will always be with you.

There is no other ground. This is the only ground we can walk on. It does feel to us that things are unsteady and unpredictable, and God is what He is and does what He does without explanation. But in spite of this, there is a quality of being that we can rely on, that will never leave us, that is as strong as a rock, as spacious as the sky and as permanent as eternity. It is God’s Presence with us, inside us, wherever we go, whatever happens. Ki Eheyeh Imakh. For I will be with you.

Chanukah: Let Go

There is a strange Chanukah halakhah that we have been exploring in my high school Gemara class this week -- If your Chanukah candle goes out, even right after you lit it, you are not required to relight it. This is not to say that you can’t relight it or are not encouraged to do so. It’s great to keep the flame going. But you are not required to. You have fulfilled your mitzvah by the mere act of putting light to the candle or oil. That is enough.

This feels deeply significant to me. The miracle of Chanukah that we are commemorating is similar; they found enough oil only to last one day, even though they needed it to last eight. What did they do? They did their part -- only the initial lighting; the result -- the continuance of the flame for all 8 days-- was not their doing or their responsibility.

We are so controlling. We hold on tight to make sure things work out just so, to ensure the proper result. We want things to be perfect, to last just the right amount of time. But the halakhah teaches here to LET GO. Or as someone once said to me -- Let go and let God. Sometimes we hold on so tight, controlling every moment and watching carefully how things turn out, that we don’t allow the flow of God’s rhythm and goodness to enter; we don’t surrender. We hold on for dear life and try to make it all fit.

On Chanukah, we turn away from our this-worldly affairs and enter the world of the miraculous, the supernatural. This light of Chanukah is different from shabbos; on shabbos we are meant to use and enjoy it; it is ordinary light for our ordinary purposes of eating and reading. But on Chanukah we aren’t allowed to use the light; the light is of another order, from another realm; it has sanctity and miraculousness to it; it flickers with wonder, drawing us into another world. This other world only exists if we allow it to, if we make room for it, if we stop holding on so tight and forcing things to go exactly how we want and expect them to, if we make room for surprises, if we make room for the divine.

One other thing -- that same gemara (Shabbat 21a) talks about whether you can use wicks and oils on Chanukah that don’t burn so well. One is not allowed to use these on shabbos, but it turns out that on Chanukah you ARE allowed to use such imperfect materials. Although we mostly try to use the best on Chanukah and there is a minhag to use pure olive oil -- this is again not a requirement. The requirement is just the bare minimum -- some kind of oil and wick or candle, something at all to light with. We are not looking for perfection or even striving here. It is as if we are saying -- don’t think it’s all in your hands. Don’t think that if I do it perfectly --my life, my job, my relationships -- if I do it with the very best oils and I never allow for imperfection and substandard performance, if I hold on super tight and make sure everything is just right -- then, and only then, will it all work out. NO. The message of Chanukah is again one of letting go -- letting go of control, letting go of perfection, of the need to hold on tight and do things just so. You think it only works out because you are making it all work? No. There is a larger much more powerful force at work here.

Sometimes we feel like the world depends on us, that the earth won’t keep turning unless we do things right, that the class won’t learn unless we teach it just so, that our children won’t grow up happily unless we parent perfectly. This type of thinking does not allow room for God, for the flow of goodness that pours down continuously, with or without us. Yes, we need to participate, to take the first step, to light the light. But after that, even if we have done a substandard job, even if we are not perfect and our oil is smoky and impure, even so, the light will shine bright and clear because this is the light of another world. May we know how to let go and allow it into our lives.

Parashat Vayetze: You Matter!

Yaakov dreams of a ladder with angels going up and down on it to heaven, and God standing above, protecting him and caring for him.

What strikes me about this image is how individual it is. Avraham dealt with grand visions of a future people as numerous as the stars. He is av hamon goyim, the father of many nations. Yaakov, though, Yaakov, at least here, is just a little guy trying to survive and find a place for himself in this rough and tumble world. His vision is personal, intimate, exactly what he needs to hear -- that God cares about one little guy and what happens to him.

Yaakov has reason to believe that he doesn’t deserve God’s care. He has not been a very upstanding character, cheating his brother and running away from the anger he caused. We can imagine what he feels -- that he is a castout, a reject, a nothing, that he doesn’t deserve either kindness or protection.

We are sometimes in this place. We are disappointed in ourselves; we are running away from our mistakes; we have messed things up and are trying to escape. And in those moments, we may wonder whether we even deserve this life, whether we may have forfeited our right to God’s love and care, whether it even makes sense for God to care about one little person like us, with all our problems. In the larger scheme of things, it seems to us that we do not really matter. There is a world full of such individuals, many more talented and worthwhile than we are. Really, why should God care? Why should we matter at all to Him? Do we really matter?

There is something in this text that answers a resounding yes to this question of individual mattering: Yes! You, as an individual, do matter! The Torah portrays a world in which God does care about a single person, no matter how messed up. Yaakov does not need to DESERVE this care. He may feel that he should, that he does need to earn it; indeed, he seems a little insecure about it, making a deal -- if You protect me, God, then I will do such and such in return, as if God would only do it for the sake of such a vow. But God doesn’t make such deals. He offers the care for FREE, no strings attached. There is no earning it or deserving it. God is just standing there, breathing life into us, in and out, in and out, like the angels going up and down on the ladder. God is steadfast with Yaakov, and steadfast with us. We feel insecure, but He is always there. We can’t lose Him or become unworthy of this care.

This feels like an essential message, one we can’t hear often enough and one that needs to really sink in for us to live fully, for us to be lifted optimistically and securely into action, as Yaakov was after this encounter (Vayisa Yaakov et raglav). The message is: God is standing above you right now, looking out for you, protecting you, standing by you, sending His angels of love in the form of the exhale and inhale, the in and out and the up and down of the divine breath of life that pulses through you. We have not earned this breath; we do not deserve this life or this love. They are free gifts, and importantly, they are given to each one of us as an individual.

At this moment, God deems it good that you in particular should live and breathe and be taken care of. You in particular, not just general humanity. God is looking down on you -- just you in all your craziness and specialness -- and smiling and sending you life and love and care. Soak it in.