My homiletics teacher in Rabbinical School was a powerhouse woman named Rabbi Maggie Wenig. She in wrote a sermon in 1990 that’s somewhat famous, at least as far as sermons go. It’s called God is a Woman and She’s Growing Older.” I encourage you to Google it, as it is quite powerful. Other rabbis deliver it from time to time, hopefully in her name. It imagines God as an old mother, with a wrinkled face and a gentled demeanor. It posits what it might be like to visit Her on Rosh Hashanah, instead of offering your t’shuvah in synagogue, you sit together at Her kitchen table and flip through Her book of memories. It describes how you might say you are sorry to God, and what God might say in return, what She might hope for you and want for your future. The sermon portrays a God of imminence and maternal compassion.
I’ve been thinking about that sermon a lot lately. I wonder what Rabbi Wenig’s feminine God might say to this moment, how the interaction at Her table might be different. Tonight, I’d like offer, with hopefully not too much audacity, a sequel to Rabbi Wenig’s beautiful prose. Twenty-eight years later, this is my humble offering of what God might be thinking today. I call it “God is a woman and she’s growing tired of this.”
God is a woman and She’s growing tired of this.
God is a woman and She’s growing tired of this. Though Her muscles are weak and back is bent, She has been pacing the kitchen all afternoon. She is wringing Her arthritic hands. From time to time, a tear form in the corner of a cataritic eye and forges a path down a wrinkled face like a stream winding through a canyon. God is a woman and She’s growing tired of this.
It is the day before Shavuot, and instead of spending the morning baking a cheesecake and re-reading Her favorite book, God has been sitting in classrooms and hospital rooms as Her children lay dying. She has sat crying with parents, as they learned life-shattering news. She is weary of sitting with grieving mothers, unable to find any words to offer them.
Every single time it happens, God thinks back to the very first time. God had to be the one to tell Eve what had happened, what Cain had done to Able. Adam didn’t have the guts to do it. Eve let out a wail that was guttural and terrible. It echoed through the whole earth. It still rings in God’s ears, even now. When Eve’s wailing turned to sobs, and her flailing subsided, God held her in Her arms. They were just two mothers then, weeping over a lost boy. Adam, ever practical in his infinite curiosity, asked God what the word is for this. There is a word for a child who has lost parents, a word for a husband who loses a wife. What is the word for a parent who loses a child? God lifted Her head from Eve’s shoulder. Her eyes were red and puffy. “There is no word for that pain, my son. I didn’t think we’d need one.”
Now God has cried with too many mothers. And She remembers every child. She keeps their photos in an album on Her night stand. She flips through it at night by the light of a muted TV. Every picture is a story cut short, a seedling cut off before it could blossom and bloom. The pages of the album are wrinkled with tears. God has sometimes worried that Her capacity to grieve these losses might grow calloused in Her old age. Some days, She finds morbid relief in seeing that tears of pain and indignation are warping even the newest pages.
Every few weeks, God’s phone will start to ring off the hook, and She will know it has happened again. People used to come visit Her at times like these, to sit a while with Her at Her table. She liked that they came, even when She hated the reason. Now they just call or text their thoughts and prayers. “Why don’t you do something” the voice on the other end of the line inevitably asks. God sighs. She has run out of things to say. If only She could tell them how badly She wants to. If only She could show them the plans She’s drawn up, Her ideas for a new world order. Even a few months ago, She started towards the door. Her better judgement had finally given way to a flood of passion like it has once or twice before. A fire burned in Her heart that made Her move with almost youthful vigor. But by the time She reached Her front step She was exhausted and needed to sit and catch Her breath. So She sat on the bench-swing on Her front porch. And from there She could see that maybe She did not need to rush out after all. Maybe we would take care of it. Maybe for once we would stop talking about how to build more dangerous swords and start actually bending them into plowshares. Maybe it was because She was light headed, but from where She was sitting, things actually appeared brighter. When God’s balance returned, She went back inside to answer more calls.
Today, a knock on Her door shakes Her from Her heartbroken stupor. She had not been expecting guests. She does not feel up to entertaining. She waits to see if they will go away. When the knock comes again, She makes Her way slowly to the door. Wordlessly She opens it. You stand there, looking at each other, waiting for the other to say something. Finally, She says, “come in. I think I have some cookies in the freezer.” So you follow Her into the house, and sit down at Her kitchen table as She unwraps the foil and produces a plate of ever-so-slightly freezer-burned cookies. Then She sits down across from you and looks you up and down. “I’m glad you are here,” She says.
At first you are silent, but then, slowly, you find your words. You tell Her about your pain, and She listens. When you cry, She reaches into the pocket of Her sweater and passes you Her handkerchief. She does not say much, but She nods, and you can see that there are tears in Her eyes, too. The cookies go uneaten. She does not try and tell you what your pain means. But She listens, and there is comfort even in that.
At some point, you realize that you are repeating yourself, and that you have run out of things to say. So you stop talking. She says only “I love you.” And then you sit a moment in silence.
There’s a question you want to ask, but you cannot seem to put the words together.
“I can’t.” She says.
“I can’t.” you say.
“You can.” She says.
“It’s too big for me.”
“it’s too big for me. That’s why I made you.”
“I would not even know where to begin.”
“I know. That’s because there is no wrong place to start.”
“And what if I fail?”
“I won’t let you.”
“And what if I am all alone?”
“You can’t be. I will always be with you.”
“But why me?”
God rises slowly and walks gingerly and wordlessly out of the room. You follow Her from the kitchen into the study, where there are shelves of shelves of journals, God’s books of memory. Feebly, She gestures to them. She says, “Never in the whole history of the world has there been someone exactly like you. I made you special, and there is a very special job that only you can do. The world is waiting for you to put your piece in the puzzle.”[i]
“But it is too big for me” you plead.
She smiles. “Bring a friend. They have a piece of the puzzle too. I did not make it so that you had to go all by yourself.”
“But why me?” you ask again, as if the first answer did not suffice.
“Because you came and asked, when no one else did. You don’t have to finish it,” She whispers. “But you can start.”[ii]
“What should I do when I run out of strength” you ask.
“Come back.” She says. “I’ll bake cookies fresh for you then.”
You are out of questions now. God is tired and finds Her way to the couch. She looks at you as you stand before her. “You,” She says, “I’m proud of you. And I’m glad you came. But go home now. We both need to rest. There will be more people who need our comfort in the morning. I think you can see yourself out.”
You lean down to kiss Her on Her forehead. Her eyes look up at you as you pull back – they have both peace and pleading in them. But Her tears have dried for now. As you turn to go, She reaches up for your hand. “Thank you,” you say to her. “Thank you,” She says back.
As you leave, God notices She feels less anxious now. Her need to pace has subsided. Her hands are settled in Her lap. Maybe She passed some of Her urgency to you. God is growing older. But She is not done. She gets Her youthfulness from us now, just as we get our fire from her. God is sitting at home, waiting, for us to do what She cannot, what She has only dreamed of. God is counting on us, on each of us.[iii]
God likes it when we come home to visit. God likes it even more when She sees us using our gifts to make life better for each other. When we are sad, God is weeping with us. When we are broken, God is the one who holds the pieces. And when we are brave in the face of injustice, in the face of big problems with complex solutions, God is right there beside us. She needs us to do what She cannot. She is waiting for us. God is a woman, and She is growing tired of this. Won’t you help her, please?