Nitzavim in Elul

Call it Moses’ last stand. In parshat Nitzavim, Moses reminds Israel of the covenant they forged with God. It’s not just one community connecting to one God, though, but an affirmation of each individual’s relationship to the Divine and Divine law.

It begins with, “You stand this day, all of you, before your God יהוה —your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials, every householder in Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to waterdrawer—to enter into the covenant of your God יהוה, which your God יהוה is concluding with you this day, with its sanctions”

In this list, Moses moves down the social hierarchy in order of social influence. Up top: Tribal heads, elders, officials, householders (that’s free men!), their children, their wives, then the strangers (those are the non-Jews who have come along for the desert journey).

Ranking in at the bottom: woodchoppers and waterdrawers. Based on knowledge of social roles in the ancient near east, biblical scholars agree that the woodchoppers were likely the male servants and the waterdrawers were the female ones.

Moses’ descending order is a hermaneutical tool. While it acknowledges the stratification of power, it ultimately delivers a message of equality. Everyone, no matter where they appear on the pyramid, has direct access to God and just as much obligation when it comes to fulfilling God’s commandments.

Reading this in the month of Elul, the month leading up the High Holy Days, drives home the feeling of intimacy that these days aim to evoke. The Lubuvacher rebbe, drawing on rabbinic tradition, explains that “the king's usual place is in the capital city, in the royal palace. Anyone wishing to approach the king must go through the appropriate channels in the palace bureaucracy and gain the approval of a succession of secretaries and ministers. He must journey to the capital and pass through the many gates, corridors and antechambers that lead to the throne room. His presentation must be meticulously prepared, and he must adhere to an exacting code of dress, speech and mannerism upon entering into the royal presence.

However, there are times when the king comes out to the fields outside the city. At such times, anyone can approach him; the king receives them all with a smiling face and a radiant countenance. The peasant behind his plow has access to the king in a manner unavailable to the highest ranking minister in the royal court when the king is in the palace. The month of Elul, says Rabbi Schneur Zalman, is when the king is in the field.”

Everyone matters and everyone has access, no matter how big or small, no matter their station in our community or our society.

There is one other way to look at woodchoppers and waterdrawers that I want to give to you as a pre-Rosh HaShanah gift.

Rabbi Bradley Artson offers some metaphors for how to read “woodcutter” and “waterdrawer” in the coming year. It has to do with how we treat others:

Woodcutters: I understand this term to be a metaphor for possible abuse in interpersonal relationships. How often do we see the person across from us, or beside us, as an object to cut down, prove wrong, or shape in the image we think they ought to be? This can happen within our families, synagogues and temples and places of business. Instead of chipping away at the edges to see what is truly beneath a person's exterior, we (often by accident) cut too much, creating scraps that are difficult to reassemble.

This pertains to our relationship with God as well. While our illustrious tradition certainly demands that we question (with passion!) God and other spiritual matters, do we sometimes go too far? Is it possible to dig so deep into that relationship and expect so much from that relationship, so that when no immediate gratification arrives, the relationship is tarnished?

Water Drawers: I understand this designation to be a metaphor for how we can see others as wells of inspiration, waiting for us to engage them, learn from them, be nourished and satiated by them, and to ultimately compliment one another. This suggests that our relationships go two ways. We give, and we receive (and the two are not always equal). There are limits, though. A well can dry up if one draws too much without replenishing it, offering something in return. But finding that balance is not so simple.

He asks us to consider: when are we woodchoppers? When are we water drawers? Each are actually quite powerful. In the coming year, we should be mindful of how we wield our axes and our buckets.

No matter the approach you take to this week’s Torah portion, the steady theme seems to be how powerful each of us is.

Elul, and soon enough, the High Holy Days, will propel us into 5785 with a sense of agency as well as accountability.

As we approach this sacred time, and perhaps the sacred presence of God that resides within it, may we be mindful of our words, constructive in our actions, and empowered to know the holiness already in our midst: it resides in our own hearts and minds and in those of our neighbors.

Ken y’hi ratzon.

Hersh

With all the horror going on in Israel, Gaza, and the West Bank, why did this week hurt more than other weeks?

Perhaps it was the truly dramatic tragedy of the thing: that the six young Israelis, stuffed away in a terror tunnel, were murdered just 48 hrs before they could be rescued. Perhaps it is the maniacal heinousness of Hamas. Perhaps it is the obstinate guilt of Netanyahu. Maybe it’s the fact that these six lives, and the tens of thousands that have perished these last 10 months, are all pawns in a twisted game that has barrelled out of control. The helplessness has hit a new low.

I stand with the thousands of Israelis imploring their government to strike a deal. Bring them home now. Save the lives of the hostages, the innocent Palestinians, the IDF soldiers and all those who just want to be home, safe, in the arms of their families.

This week, Rachel Goldberg-Polin, Hersh’s mom, eulogized her son. In the political hotbed of war, she stood before the world as a mom who wanted to hug her son again.

“It is not that Hersh was perfect,” she said, “But, he was the perfect son for me. And I am so grateful to G-d, and I want to do hakarat hatov and thank G-d right now, for giving me this magnificent present of my Hersh…For 23 years I was privileged to have this most stunning treasure, to be Hersh’s Mama. I’ll take it and say thank you. I just wish it had been for longer.”

I was astounded by her ability to even utter the word “gratitude” in such a thankless, heartbreaking circumstance when the world had failed her.

Listening to her speech while meditating over the faces of the six murdered young people, I saw the thousands of others behind them - the faces of all the children whose lives have been ended by this abhorrent violence. I saw their mothers’ tears in Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s eyes. I felt their mothers’ cries in my own lungs.

2000 years ago, the prophet Jeremiah invoked another mother-Rachel’s tears. As he surveyed the destruction of Jerusalem, in chapter 31 of his prophesy, Jeremiah cried, “A voice is heard, lamentation and bitter weeping: Rachel is weeping for her children and refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are gone.” (Jeremiah 31:15).

Jeremiah and our sages consider Rachel imaneu - our foremother Rachel, wife of Jacob - to be the personification of a weeping Israel; a mother who suffers as her children have been carted off into enemy territory and whose lives have been shattered.

Jeremiah continues: “And God will answer her: Restrain your voice from weeping, and your eyes from tears; for your work will be rewarded, says God, and they will return from the land of the enemy. There is hope for your future…that your children will return to their own borders.’”

How are we to read this part of Jeremiah’s prophecy? Your work will be rewarded, they will return to their own borders. Rachel Goldberg-Polin has spent a year using her every waking moment to bring her son home and for nothing.

Can we read Jeremiah’s words with any credibility? If I’m being generous, they can give us hope. But I’m not feeling generous. I’m feeling betrayed. These days it feels like insisting on hope is to insist on vapor - empty wisps of human goodness that seem to flee every time we grab at them.

So sometimes we need to look elsewhere for inspiration.

My colleague Rabbi Josh Whinston wrote that he heard Rachel Goldberg-Polin speak this summer: “She said that when Hersh left for the Nova festival, he left his copy of The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama at home since he only expected to be gone for a night or two. He was on the sixth chapter.”

Rabbi Whinston suggested we finish reading it in his honor. Perhaps you would like to take up the suggestion. I got a copy and began to look it over:

In Chapter 5, words Hersh had just read, the Dalai Lama shares:

Sometimes when I meet old friends, it reminds me how quickly time passes. And it makes me wonder if we've utilized our time properly or not. Proper utilization of time is so important. While we have this body, and especially this amazing human brain, I think every minute is something precious. Our day-to-day existence is very much alive with hope, although there is no guarantee of our future. There is no guarantee that tomorrow at this time we will be here. But we are working for that purely on the basis of hope. So, we need to make the best use of our time.”

In other words, hope gives us purpose. Cherishing life means knowing it might end, and while we may want to ignore that fact, it is the key to finding meaning.

The Dalai Lama then anticipates our question: how do we make the best use of our time? He continues: “I believe that the proper utilization of time is this: if you can, serve other people, other sentient beings. If not, at least refrain from harming them. I think that is the whole basis of my philosophy.”

It seems basic enough. And yet we’re failing at the “refrain from harm” part. To even put it that way is a depressing understatement.

But in honor of Hersh, we’ll trudge forward into Chapter 6. Given our drive to harm one another, how do we begin to curb our brutal inclinations?

The Dalai Lama answers: “Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them, humanity cannot survive.”

Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. We must insist upon love, even creating it from the chaotic ugliness of loss. Rachel Goldberg-Polin taught this as she addressed Hersh’s spirit: “As we transform our hope into grief and this new unknown brand of pain, I beg of you, please do what you can to have your light shine down on me, Dada, Leebie and Orly. Help shower us with healing and resilience. Help us to rise again. I know it will take a long time, but please may G-d bless us that one day, one fine day, Dada, Leebie, Orly and I will hear laughter, and we will turn around and see… that it’s us. And that we are ok. You will always be with us as a force of love and vitality, you will become our superpower.”

I am so grateful for these words. The darkness of this war has shaken us down to the depths of our souls. But can we acknowledge that we are feeling so deeply sad because we love, because we are capable of compassion? To see a world where love and compassion are lacking damages our hearts. So to survive, we must insist upon them. Like Rachel, our grief will represent our love and that will be our superpower.

This is what I see in the Israelis who have taken to the streets and continue to advocate on behalf of the hostages. Yes, it is anger, but it is also love. Love of their fellow citizens, love of their country. Love of all humanity.

Love is where it all begins and ends, at least according to Jeremiah. Because chapter 31:3 also states: “With everlasting love - a love from the beginning of the world - I have loved you.”

May we find the courage to love with an everlasting love, forged from the foundations, with the power to shatter hate. May we express gratitude, even when the word feels foreign, and may we insist on reuniting as many loved ones as possible, helping to dry the tears of every Rachel, to finally end the suffering.