Parashat Bo: Loneliness - The Real Plague of Darkness

View a video of this sermon here.

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“The students came to their teacher with a quandary: What can be done about all the evil in the world. “There is so much darkness – what can we do to dispel it?” The wise Rabbi ruminated over the problem in silence for a moment. He then asked each of them to fetch a broom. He told them that his cellar was very dark and that they should go down to the cellar and sweep away the darkness. The students were confused, but they carried their brooms to the cellar. They soon returned and informed the Rabbi of their failure to clean out the darkness. The Rabbi then asked each of them to grab a stick and beat the darkness until it went away. So the students went away again. After a while they returned with abject faces, having failed once again to get rid of the darkness. The Rabbi then told them to go back to the cellar and shout at the darkness. The students tried this and returned even more confused and frustrated. Finally, the Rabbi gave each of them a candle and asked them one last time to return to the dark cellar. And so, they went down to the pitch black cellar and one by one they set their candles alight until the darkness disappeared.”[1]

I want to talk about the plague of darkness. After all the other plagues – after rivers flowing with blood, and cattle dying from disease, and locusts eating the last of the crops – the penultimate plague was darkness.  The Torah says (Exodus 10:20-22)

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהוָ֜ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֗ה נְטֵ֤ה יָֽדְךָ֙ עַל־הַשָּׁמַ֔יִם וִ֥יהִי חֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־אֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם וְיָמֵ֖שׁ חֹֽשֶׁךְ׃

21: The Eternal said to Moses, “Hold out your arm toward the sky that there may be darkness upon the land of Egypt, a darkness that can be touched.”

וַיֵּ֥ט מֹשֶׁ֛ה אֶת־יָד֖וֹ עַל־הַשָּׁמָ֑יִם וַיְהִ֧י חֹֽשֶׁךְ־אֲפֵלָ֛ה בְּכָל־אֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרַ֖יִם שְׁלֹ֥שֶׁת יָמִֽים׃

22: Moses held out his arm toward the sky and thick darkness descended upon all the land of Egypt for three days.

לֹֽא־רָא֞וּ אִ֣ישׁ אֶת־אָחִ֗יו וְלֹא־קָ֛מוּ אִ֥ישׁ מִתַּחְתָּ֖יו שְׁלֹ֣שֶׁת יָמִ֑ים וּֽלְכָל־בְּנֵ֧י יִשְׂרָאֵ֛ל הָ֥יָה א֖וֹר בְּמוֹשְׁבֹתָֽם׃

23: People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was; but all the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings.

This was not the ordinary darkness of night. This was a darkness so thick it could be felt and touched. This is a darkness that kept you from seeing your neighbor, even when they were standing right next to you. It was a darkness that held you in your place. It was a darkness that enveloped and incapacitated.

The midrash refers to this darkness as a darkness that crept up from Gehinnom, from Hell.  It says it was the thick, goopy darkness that preceded creation, that existed before God said, “let there be light.” Harold Kushner writes that this hellish darkness is the darkness of “those who cannot truly see their neighbors, who cannot feel the pain and recognized the dignity of their afflicted neighbors.” This is the darkness that separates people from each other. This is the darkness of isolation.

Isolation is a tragic reality of our modern society. It’s ironic that in an age with more and more technology to stay connected, people are finding themselves increasingly isolated. It has led some to call this “the age of loneliness”[2] It is why this week, British Prime Minister Theresa May appointed an official “Minister for Loneliness” to coordinate her government’s response to this growing crisis.[3]

And it is a crisis. The UK is responding to a recent study that revealed that more than nine million people in the country report that they often or always feel lonely.[4] And the problem is just as bad on this side of the pond. While in the 1970’s and 80’s, 10 to 20 percent of the population reported frequently feeling lonely, some recent studies have found that today the number may be as high as 45 percent.[5] “The General Social Survey found that the number of Americans with no close friends has tripled since 1985.… The average number of people Americans feel they can talk to about ‘important matters’ has fallen from three to two.”[6] The AARP reports that “42.6 million adults over age 45 in the United States are estimated to be suffering from chronic loneliness”[7].

And the consequences of this epidemic are dire. People who experience chronic loneliness have significantly greater risk for physical and mental health problems, including heart disease and depression.[8] One study found that “social isolation and feelings of loneliness increase a person’s chance of premature death by 14 percent — nearly double the risk of early death from obesity.” [9] Another showed that chronic isolation is worse for your health than smoking 15 cigarettes a day.[10]

This is the 9th plague. The darkness of separation from other human beings. How apt is this description for this kind of depressive and oppressive loneliness the Torah provides: a darkness that was so thick people could not see their neighbors. People could not even move.

It is also the isolation we inflict upon ourselves. The Hassidic Rabbi Yitzchak Meir Alter has a different way of reading this verse. He flips the words around saying, “the worst darkness is the blindness in which one person will not ‘see another’ (Exodus 10:23) refusing to look upon his misery and help him. Such a person will be incapable of ‘rising from his place’ – of growth and development.”[11] How true it is that when we choose not to see one another, we are in darkness! It is like the Psalmist says, we have eyes, but we cannot see.[12]

So what do we do when we live in the “age of loneliness” – in a time of increasing isolation? What can we do to combat the forces of darkness that threaten to envelop us? That threaten to pull us apart from other people? Perhaps this is why we are here in synagogue this evening. Perhaps this is the work of sacred community. The Torah says:

“People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was; but all the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings.”

Somehow, even in times of darkness, the Jews build sanctuaries of light. That’s why we’re here this evening. Not just to say kaddish, not just to hear the music or recite the prayers. We are here to be together, countercultural as it may be. We come here, on this Shabbat – a holiday that begins with the kindling of light, so that we can see each other. The ancient farmers who invented this holiday did not light candles on other nights. When the sun went down, they went to bed to rest up for another long day of work. But on Shabbat, they would kindle lights in their dwellings and feel the job of seeing their families faces illuminated in the candle’s warm glow.

This is why Jews must say kaddish in a minyan of ten people. Because our tradition knows that mourning can be isolating and lonely. Grief threatens to force us into darkness.  But ‘no,’ says our tradition. You cannot mourn alone in the dark. You must bring your sadness out into the light, where we can share it with you.

To bring light into a darkened world is sacred work. The prophet Isaiah quotes God, saying, “I have grasped you by the hand. I created you, and appointed you a covenant people, a light of nations — Opening eyes deprived of light.”[13] This is our sacred calling as a Jewish people, to bring light to dark places.

We know that we cannot combat the darkness by adding more friends on Facebook. It will take more than Tweets, more than Instagram photos and JDate profiles to open eyes deprived of light. It takes calling the elderly family member or friend who has been shut in during the cold this week, and seeing how they are holding up. It is asking your neighbor “how are you doing” and then not taking “fine” for an answer.  It is writing a thank you note to a person who touched your day.

If the darkness is the inability to see our neighbor, then we must choose ways to open our eyes. We must focus on people and not policies. We cannot let the complexities of our nation’s biggest decisions blind us to the realities of the lives of the people they affect.  We cannot choose to be blind to the needs of our neighbors, for that is how the darkness gets in. When we avert our eyes from their pain, we court darkness. Rather, we must seek them out, we must hear their stories, for that is the pathway to light.

We can train our brains to do this, and resist the trend towards darkness. We can call the grocery store clerk by the name on their ID badge, so that we can start to see them as a person and not just a checkout machine. We can make conversation with the other people in line. We can look a panhandler in the eyes, instead of glancing away.  And if fighting back the darkness isn’t a good enough reason, then chew on this: Research from Julianne Holt-Lunstad at Brigham Young University has found that the greatest predictor of longevity was social integration. More than weight or exercise, the amount of connections you have to other people make you more likely to live a longer life. It’s the strong and the weak connections, it’s friends and family, but it’s also your bridge club, and the people you see at services, and the people you smile at in the store. If you want to live a long life, Julianne Holt-Lunstad finds, interact with people. Fight back the darkness with light.

The Egyptians sat, stuck in their darkness while the Israelites moved around freely in light. They may choose to sit in the dark – they may chose not to see their neighbors. But we can choose light for ourselves. We can choose to see other people as people, and not things. We can choose to try and see their pain, and see their struggle, and in so doing, we bring light and freedom to this world. And then, we can try and offer that light to others.

Think of the rabbi, who taught his pupils that you cannot sweep the darkness under the rug, any more than you can swipe it away on Tinder. You cannot beat the darkness back by force. And you certainly cannot shout it away. All you can do is be a light, and add your light to the light of others around you, until the darkness disappears.

 

I’m going to ask you to do something now, that may feel scary because it’s counter cultural. In a minute, I’m going to ask you to turn to your neighbor, and ask them a question. Try and ask someone you didn’t come here with. You may even have to get up and move. And as you listen to their answer, try to look them in the eye. Try and see the light that is hidden there. The question I’d like each of you to ask each other is “what was a source of light for you this past week”.  Let’s take a few minutes and ask each other.

Time for people to talk

Shabbatones sing Or Zarua.

The Psalmist declares – light is sown for the righteous and joy for the upright of heart. May this room and this community of light continue to be a sanctuary from the darkness.

 

[1] Adaped slightly from https://mustafahameed.blog/2011/12/30/candles-in-the-dark/

[2] https://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/03/21/science-loneliness_n_6864066.html

[3] https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/17/world/europe/uk-britain-loneliness.html

[4] ibid

[5] http://fortune.com/2016/06/22/loneliness-is-a-modern-day-epidemic/

[6] https://www.forbes.com/sites/carolinebeaton/2017/02/09/why-millennials-are-lonely/#5c9073a17c35

[7] https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2017/08/170805165319.htm

[8] http://healthland.time.com/2013/03/26/social-isolation-not-just-feeling-lonely-may-shorten-lives/

[9] https://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/03/21/science-loneliness_n_6864066.html

[10] https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/17/world/europe/uk-britain-loneliness.html

[11] Torah Gems: Shemot, p 74

[12] Psalm 115:5

[13] Isaiah 42:6-7

Jews Choose Hope (Sermon after the 2016 Presidential Election) November 11, 2016



I didn’t want to get out of bed on Wednesday morning. I pulled the covers up over my head so that the world would be as dark as I felt. I wanted to be alone, like the words of Rabbi Hillel, in Pirke Avot:[i]בִמְקוֹם שֶׁאֵין אֲנָשִׁים, הִשְׁתַּדֵּל לִהְיוֹת אִישׁ – in a place where there are no people, you must strive to be a person. That’s how I felt, like I had to be a person all by myself.
And I want to acknowledge again all the different emotions that people are bringing into this room. Some of us are excited or surprised. Others are fearful, and heartbroken. There is anger, and confusion. This room is a churning sea of feelings. And all of them are true and real and honest. And all of it is who we are as a community of blessed diversity. 

But I think all of us can agree there is an overwhelming feeling of uncertainty. Whether you voted for the president-elect or for someone else, there is a sense that we have gone off script, that we are starting a new book, with characters and plot twists that we cannot yet imagine. For many of us, even those of us who have voted in the past for candidates who did not win, this moment does not seem normal. And for some of us, this moment does not seem safe.

And so we enter into this Shabbat holding up the candles like a torch, hoping they will shed some light on where we are going. We used to know the path ahead, whether we liked the direction or not. Now, we are struggling to find the trail, and we don’t know where we are headed.
I can only imagine how you feel. So, I’ll speak for myself. I feel numb. And I feel busted open. And I feel heartbroken. I feel like things I thought I could trust, like data and journalism, have revealed themselves to be less reliable than I thought. As if the curtain were pulled back, revealing that the Great Oz was just an old man, frantically working the controls, trying to keep the illusion going. But more painfully, I feel distant from my fellow Americans. Like many of us during this election season, I could not fathom the other side, especially its most ardent voices. But I felt comfort in the conviction that they were a small minority. Then, on Election Day, no matter who we voted for, we all found out that more than 50 million Americans voted for the other side. I felt shocked by how distant my life experience is from some of my fellow Americans. I feel like Abraham in the Torah this week, instructed by God to go out “to a land you do not know.”[ii] I feel like I am already living in a land I do not know. I want to be the kind of person who can imagine other people complexly. I’m not there yet.

But I will try. We must try. To meet the other. To know each other better. Our country cannot be like oil and water, struggling to separate themselves and to put one on top of the other. The Torah teaches that I should love my neighbor as myself. Jewish history is the story of expanding our definition of “neighbor.” So is modern civilization. But how can I love someone who I cannot even imagine. We can love people when we know them. I don’t think we have done enough loving our neighbors in recent years. I pray, and I hope that this election will lead to a greater coming together, not a greater splitting apart.

I’m thinking that Rabbi Hillel was wrong when he said, “In a place where there are no people, you must strive to be a person,” because there are other people here. And that’s how we got in this mess in the first place – our inability to see the other side as human: to understand THEIR needs and THEIR fears and THEIR dreams? Hillel’s presupposition is false. There are humans here. We are all struggling. We are all striving. We are all searching. I want to amend Rabbi Hillel, to say, “In a place full of a diversity of humans, we must strive to be humans.” Our humanity is not defined in the face of opposition, it’s defined in the embrace of it.

I don’t know yet what we will do next. But I want to say some things about what we will not do. We will not abide intolerance in any form. Certainly not within these walls. We will not let this election be a referendum on hatred. We will not abide bullies here. The Zionist pioneer, Yehiel Weingarten, writes “I won’t teach our children to hate.”[iii] And we will not give up. I’ll be honest. I think we will see some increases in anti-Semitism in the coming years, but I don’t think it will present a physical danger. I pray I’m right. But I will say that if we see our Muslim neighbors – our law-abiding Muslim neighbors – facing the same kind of intimidation and discrimination and threat of violence that we experienced in the early 1930s in Germany, we will not remain silent. And we will speak up to protect the rights people of color. We will speak up to protect immigrants and refugees. Our loved ones who are undocumented, or who have undocumented family members. Those who are gay, and those who are transgender. We will speak up in our synagogue, in our community, and in our country. Wednesday was a day of broken glass. Not the glass of a glass ceiling, as some of us had hoped. It was the 78th anniversary of the Kristalnacht Pogrom in Germany. And as we continue to pick up the pieces, we will be reminded. We will not be silent.

Which brings me to the prevailing emotion of this election season – fear. Fear on both sides. Fear of each other. Fear of the other. It started to feel like fear was the central emotion of our modern age. But it is not a default position. Fear is a choice. Fear is a monster knocking on the door of the house, hoping to be invited in. But we need not let it live in here.

And there is an opposite choice. The opposite choice is hope. Fear may be the easier choice. But hope is the more transformative one. Hope is not a thing that happens to you. It is not only a noun. It is a verb. It is a thing you choose every day. It is not a coincidence that the national anthem of the Jewish state is called Hatikvah, “The Hope.” It is not a coincidence that it contains the words עוֹד לֹא אָבְדָה תִּקְוָתֵנו – Our hope, a hope of two thousand years, is not yet lost. Because Jews choose hope.

Hope is an audacious choice. It is a countercultural choice. It is a revolutionary choice. Think of the story of Hanukah. It is an inherently hopeful story. When the days are shortest and the darkness creeps in, when the winter winds blow, Jews choose to light candles. We choose to bring light to the darkness. And we celebrate a miracle of light. But not only a miracle. A choice. The Maccabees found oil to last a single day, and they needed eight days to purify a new batch… And they lit the lamp anyway. That is the audacious choice of hope. To know that the oil cannot last and to light the lamp anyway. To choose to hope. Jews choose hope.

When Abraham heard the call of Lech L’cha, to leave his father’s house and his homeland and head out to a land he did not know, he didn’t argue. He just went. Because Jews choose hope.

When the Egyptian pharaoh commanded Israelite mothers to cast their baby boys into the Nile, one woman chose to weave her son a basket instead. Because Jews choose hope.

When the sea would not part, one Israelite walked into the waters until they lapped at his lips, because Jews choose hope.

When the Israelites were parched in the desert and thought they would die, Miriam prayed and a miraculous well sprung up for her out of nowhere. Because Jews choose hope.

When the Temple was destroyed and we could no longer sacrifice, the rabbis created the siddur, a new way to worship God that they could take with them wherever they went. Because Jews choose hope.

During the Spanish Inquisition, Jews found ways to practice their faith in secret, at risk of death – choosing to maintain their relationship with their God even if it cost them their lives, because Jews choose hope.

Our ancestors left behind their homes and their families and sailed across the sea to this country because they wanted to build a better life for themselves and their children. Because Jews choose hope.

We will not let the temptation to choose fear rule our lives, because we will make the bolder and more powerful choice. Because Jews choose hope.

I will not teach our children to hate. I will not let them learn the wrong lessons from this election. I will not let them learn that bullies win in the long run. I will not let them learn that some people are worth less than others. I will not let them let them learn that strength is a more virtuous than kindness. I will not let them learn that hate is a more powerful than love. Because Jews choose hope.

The prophet Isaiah says that God’s house will be a house of prayer for all people.[iv] And that will be true of this house, no mater who is president. This will be a house of prayer for all people. Gay and straight. Black and white and brown. Native American and Latino. Cisgender and transgender. Documented and undocumented. This will be a house of prayer for all people. A house of prayer for Jews and Christians and Muslims. And this will be not just a house of prayer, but a house of hope. Because Jews choose hope.

Psalm 89 contains the words עוֹלָם חֶסֶד יִבָּנֶה – A world of love will be built.[v] I will build a world from love. And we will build a world from love. And if we build this world from love, then God too will build this world from love. עוֹלָם חֶסֶד יִבָּנֶה Because if our thousands-year story has taught us anything, it is that love is stronger than hate. And hope is stronger than fear. And so, in spite of losses in the short term that want us to choose otherwise, Jews choose hope.

עוֹלָם חֶסֶד יִבָּנֶה the glue with which we will repair this broken world isn’t hate, or fear. It’s Chesed. It’s love. I might not see it yet. I’m not even sure I can believe it yet. But I will choose it. Every day. Because I’m a Jew. And Jews choose hope.



[i] Pirke Avot 2:5
[ii] This is not actually a line from the Torah, but from Debbie Friedman’s midrash on it for her son Lechi Lach
[iv] Isaiah 56:7
[v] Psalm 89:3

​I have a Sinai Problem

I have a Sinai Problem.

I love the imagery of the Revelation on Mount Sinai that comes from this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat Yitro. It’s so evocative and moving. The thunder and the lightning. The shofar blast and the trembling and the awe. I can close my eyes and hear the echoes of that moment.

There is a Midrash that teaches that all Jew stood together at Mount Sinai. Not just the Israelites whom God freed from Egypt, but all Jews throughout history. Mordechai and Maimonides. Solomon and Spinoza. And you, and I. And I can feel that truth. I have a sense that I was there, listening as God spoke for the first time to the Jewish people. But I don’t know what I heard.

That’s my Sinai Problem. I feel the truth of the moment of revelation, but I don’t know what was revealed. I feel that moment speaking to me today, but I don’t know what it is saying.

What is the voice that echoes from Sinai?

The traditional Jewish answer is simple. Just all Jewish teaching…ever. For the traditionalist, this includes the Torah, which we call the written law, and also the Mishnah and Gemarah, which make up the Talmud, or what we call the oral law. For some this even includes commentaries on the Talmud. Maimonides sums it up most succinctly when he says, “I believe with perfect faith that the whole Torah, now in our possession, is the same that was given to Moses our Teacher [on Mount Sinai].”[1]

And this is where they lose me. I know that Jewish law developed over centuries. I don’t believe that in one moment God revealed all the commentaries ever written. I know that each generation adds its own creativity to the Jewish project. I don’t believe that this comes from God’s predetermination. I believe that God wanted us to share the load.

So this is my Sinai Problem: I don’t believe that God gave the whole Torah at Mount Sinai, I’m not even sure it was a real historical event. And yet I hear it call to me. I feel it in my kishkes. If I don’t believe that God gave the Torah at Mount Sinai, what does it mean that I feel that I was there for the Revelation? What speaks to me about that moment? How do I solve my Sinai Problem?

I think all of us Jews in the modern world have a Sinai problem. If you leave behind the traditional Jewish notion that God gave Moses the entirety of Jewish law, then how do we make that moment meaningful in our lives? What is the purpose of revelation? Many philosophers have their own solution to their Sinai problem. Perhaps they can help us solve ours.

 

Sinai Solution Number One: Sinai Starts our Story.

Rabbi David Hartman, an esteemed Orthodox rabbi from Jerusalem, says that belief in Sinai does not require that one believe that all truth was revealed in that moment, or that our task is only to uncover what was already laid bare. Rather, he argues that what happened at Mount Sinai “gave the community a direction, an arrow pointing toward a future filled with many surprises… The Sinai moment of revelation… invites one and all to… explore the terrain and extend the road.”

For Hartman, Sinai set our community on a journey. It was not a road map, it was a starting place. God sent us out on our mission. It is a mission that still speaks to us today, a story we are still telling, and in that way, the journey that began at Sinai still unfolds today. For Hartman, Sinai’s is powerful because it is the start of our story.

 

Sinai Solution Number Two: Sinai informs our growth as a people.

The Reform philosopher Jakob Petuchowski does not see a contradiction between the historical development of Jewish law and the resounding appeal of Sinai. Jewish law evolved over centuries. Different circumstances called for different responses. Life for the Jews in ancient Israel was different than life for the Jews of the Babylonian Exile or Medieval Spain. Each required its own adaptations of Jewish teaching.

Yet the Jews of each age examined each challenge through the lens of that initial moment at Sinai.

Petuchowski says, “The thunders and the lightning at Sinai, as they appear in the biblical narrative, are an echo sounding through the ages of what had happened there. They testify to the fact of the Revelation, to the impact it had on the people.” That impact continued to shape the Jews of each age. For Petuchowski, Sinai is powerful because it echoes across Jewish life and shapes our growth as a people.

 

Sinai Solution Number Three: Sinai creates our Covenant

There is a midrash that teaches that at the moment of the revelation, God lifted the mountain and held it over the heads of the Israelites, to serve as a chuppah.[2] “God came to Sinai to accept the Jewish people, as a groom who goes out to greet his bride.” Standing under the Mountain, we are wed to God.

This is the meaning of the covenant at Saini. Like a marriage, we strive each day to know each other better. Like a marriage, we strive each day to learn how we might better meet each other’s needs. Like a marriage, our future is wrapped up in each other. The Prophet Hosea declares, “I will betroth you to Me forever.” (Hosea 2:21) At Sinai, God married the Jewish people, and today we are still partners in that marriage.

The philosopher Franz Rosenzweig, offers a modern framing of this idea. He says that at Sinai, the Jewish people didn’t hear the word of God, they encountered God, and began a new relationship with God “It was at Sinai that the people began the process of searching out what God wanted from them.”[3]

This was the spiritual marriage into which God and the Jewish people entered. It was a covenant of the search for the answer to the question, “What does God want from me as Jew?” For Rosenzweig, Sinai is powerful because it is the place where God and the Jewish people entered into covenant.

 

Sinai Solution Number Four: Sinai speaks to our soul.

Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Birditchev, a Hassidic commentator, offers an explanation of the Israelites’ statement when they accepted the law: “נַעֲשֶׂה וְנִשְׁמָע (Exo 24:7 WTT) – we will do and we will listen.” You would think it would be in the other order: “We will listen and then we will do.” Levi Yitzhak struggles with how it could be that the Israelites agreed to commandments they had not yet heard.

To solve this problem, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak says that there is a Torah inside of all us. It is written in our spiritual DNA. He posits that inside our physical bodies, we have another, spiritual body, and written on the bones and sinews of that body is Torah. And just like our bodies need food, our spiritual bodies require sustenance. And for Jews, that food is mitzvot – commandments and good deeds.

Have you ever had a moment here you just knew something was right or wrong? You didn’t need to look it up, or ask a rabbi, or consult a friend. You just knew it was right. Rabbi Levi Yitzhak says that this was you being aware of the Torah that is written in your spiritual self. The process of revelation is a process of self-discovery; it’s about finding the truth that is hidden within us from the very beginning. Standing at Sinai, the Israelites discovered what they already knew to be true.

This is how they were able to eagerly say, “נַעֲשֶׂה וְנִשְׁמָע (Exo 24:7 WTT) – we will do and we will listen.” In the moment of awe, as God lifted the mountain above their heads, they were able to open themselves up to their own inner truth. The Torah they heard is a Torah that was written inside of them. For Rabbi Levi Yitzhak, Sinai is powerful because it resonates with our spiritual selves.

Each of us has a spiritual soul, one that we inherited from our ancestors or one that we claimed for ourselves. Judaism speaks to me because it speaks to my spiritual soul. The revelation of Sinai still echoes in my own ears because it is the ongoing revelation of my own inherited truth.

Every day is an opportunity to know my spiritual soul better, to find out what it needs for sustenance. Each person in each generation should see himself as if he stood at Sinai, because each person is constantly learning to better understand the Torah that is written within her or within him. These are some solutions to the Sinai Problem. For Hartman, Sinai starts our story. For Petuchowski, Sinai informs our growth. For Rosenzweig, Sinai sets a covenant. For Levi Yitzhak, Sinai speaks to our soul.

 

For me, each of these begins to shape my solution to my own Sinai problem. Sinai calls me to the story of my people. It unites our community and helps us to grow. It begins our covenant with God. And it speaks to my spiritual self.

The Torah blessings that we will recite tomorrow morning call us to seek answers to the question of Sinai. They end with the words נוֹתֵן הַתּוֹרָה – God who gives Torah. We do not say נָתַן הַתּוֹרָה – God who gave the Torah.[4] We say it in present tense. God is constantly giving us Torah. We are constantly finding truth, in the world and in ourselves. And in that way, we are constantly hearing the echoes of Sinai. Every day is an opportunity to stand in the overpowering awe of the mountain, to feel the earth shake, and see the lights flash, as God gives Torah to us. It happens in big ways and small ways. It happens at crucial moments and in the quiet hours where we are alone with our thoughts. But when we perceive a truth in the world and it resonates with the truth that is within us, we receive Torah. We stand at Sinai. When we feel wed to God, when we feel the call to discern what God wants from us, we stand at Sinai. When we feel embraced by the story of our people, we stand at Sinai. Revelation is the reality that reverberates across time.

Baruch Atah Adonai, notein hatorah – Blessed are you God, who calls us to Sinai, who is daily giving us Torah.

[1] Maimonides 8th Principle of Faith

[2] Mechilta D’Rabbi Yishamel

[3] Rosenzweig’s position as explained by Harvey J. Fields in A Torah Commentary for Our Times, Vol 2 p49.

[4] Based on Yalkut Me’am Lo’e