Abacaxi Mamão

I'm sorry for the long silence. Things have been a bit awry in my life as of late, and this blog has suffered. Sorry, blog (and readers).

Labels: Chanukah, Jewish holidays, links

Labels: Israel, Jewish holidays, travel

I bought a Tikun Yom HaAtzmaut at a used bookstore here a few months ago. (I loved used books. Even more than new ones, although that is a tough comparison since each brings me joy in different ways.)

Labels: Israel, Jewish holidays

Oh, that's right! It's Lag B'Omer!

Labels: Israel, Jewish holidays, travel

This is still true. I wish I was in a space to write something this hopeful and assured this year, but I am not. Maybe by the 6th night of Chanukah, I will be.

Tonight is Shira's eighth yahrzeit. You can read more about her here and here. I don't have anything to say about her yahrzeit this year. I am thinking about her, though.

Labels: Chanukah, In Memoriam, Jewish holidays

I was going to post, at one point over the past three weeks, about how I wasn't really in the "Tisha B'Av mood" this year, and how hard it wasn't particularly difficult to feel sad, but it was difficult to feel sad for this.

It is all too easy for me to read Eicha or kinot and feel sad for the losses that I have experienced personally. Experiencing communal losses, especially losses that took place so long ago, has always been more difficult. One of the challenges of Tisha B'Av for me is to move away from reading the lamentations of Eicha and personalizing them (as I tend to¹), and to try to think about what it means for a community to be destroyed and what that destruction did to us, rather than how our lives might sometimes look as tragic as Jeremiah's lamentations.

I was sitting, listening to Eicha last night, and the second half of this verse suddenly blew me away with its beauty:

יג מָה-אֲעִידֵךְ מָה אֲדַמֶּה-לָּךְ, הַבַּת יְרוּשָׁלִַם--מָה אַשְׁוֶה-לָּךְ וַאֲנַחֲמֵךְ, בְּתוּלַת בַּת-צִיּוֹן: כִּי-גָדוֹל כַּיָּם שִׁבְרֵךְ, מִי יִרְפָּא-לָךְ.

13 What shall I take to witness for thee? What shall I liken to thee, O daughter of Jerusalem? What shall I equal to thee, that I may comfort thee, O virgin daughter of Zion? For thy breach is great like the sea; who can heal thee?

I can't say that I love the JPS (1917) translation. I would translate it as: "For your brokenness is as great as the sea, who can heal you?" The implication clearly being: Nobody can heal you.

Hearing this verse read last night made me feel, as perhaps nothing ever had before, that things were so horribly undone with the destruction of the Temples and subsequent exile that they can never be done up again. My life was irrevocably changed by that event, and that the tragic events of those years somehow lives in on each of us. The brokenness of that time was so great that it, in fact, could not and can not be repaired. Somehow, instead of reading my personal life as a gloss over the text of Eicha, I was able to read Eicha as a gloss on my own life. Rather than "I am that," I felt "that is me."

I can't say what life would have been like had the Babylonians not sacked Jerusalem in 586 BCE or the Romans in 70 CE. If the prophecy of Deuteronomy 4:27² hadn't come about, how would the world be different? How wold the Jewish people be different? Would we still be sacrificing animals in the Temple? Would there be a priestly class and a class of Levites that ate special food (i.e., maaser)? Would instant messaging have been invented in the Land of Israel rather than the State of Israel? Would psychoanalysis exist? Would Hollywood? Would Spain be different? Would Germany? Some of these may seem like silly questions, but maybe they aren't. We would live in a different world if these two tragedies hadn't happened.

My life would certainly be quite different. I would not have spent the past five years working in the field of Jewish education in New York City; I would not have spent the past summer studying Talmud and midrash and halacha. I cannot calculate the extent to which my life, both inner and outer, is shaped by an ancestral history of exile, oppression, emigration, and immigration. I would not be who I am today without my dual status as both an insider³ and an outsider⁴ in the United States. Even if I had grown up in Israel and somehow didn't have this feeling of being an outsider in a majority culture, I would be a person entirely shaped by living in a state that arose during modernity, not a state in continuous existence from the time of the Romans.

Part of me wants to say that if that had somehow not happened, if our ancestors had not so royally messed up, Jerusalem might still be a "קִרְיָה נֶאֱמָנָה," a "faithful city," about which is said "מְלֵאֲתִי מִשְׁפָּט, צֶדֶק יָלִין בָּהּ," "she was full of justice, righteousness lodged in her" [Isaiah 1:21]. I do not mean to cast general aspersions on the modern city of Jerusalem; I wish to imagine, briefly, a world in which Jerusalem was now and has been for the past 2000 years the widely-recognized seat of righteousness and justice in the world. Can you imagine that? Could that have happened, or was that merely a dream of a frustrated prophet?

Something I've thought about a lot lately is that when we mourn, we mourn not only for the tremendous loss of life and the Temples, but for the losses that have plagued us since that time because of those tragedies and for the lost potential that evaporated when those tragedies occurred. This is a natural thing to think of when we lose a human being before his or her time (what they might have been! what they might have done!), but when a community is prematurely cut off from its homeland, it's less natural to think in those terms. But, in many ways, that is the heart of this tragedy.

The description of how deeply and irrevocably the ancient Israelites disregarded their eternal covenant with God up also struck me this year, perhaps for the first time. Rather than wondering how such total destruction could ever have been warranted, I felt myself channeling Isaiah and Jeremiah and railing a bit at the ancient Israelites. How could you have done that? And, having done that, how could you ask God to save you? I wondered how the text of Eicha could be so shocked at the destruction and plead so willfully for God to remember his covenant if the Israelites had so clearly ignored their half of the deal.

Because of a d'var Torah that was I gave several times during the Three Weeks, I spent a lot of time before Tisha B'Av reading Jeremiah 11:

ח וְלֹא שָׁמְעוּ, וְלֹא-הִטּוּ אֶת-אָזְנָם, וַיֵּלְכוּ, אִישׁ בִּשְׁרִירוּת לִבָּם הָרָע; וָאָבִיא עֲלֵיהֶם אֶת-כָּל-דִּבְרֵי הַבְּרִית-הַזֹּאת, אֲשֶׁר-צִוִּיתִי לַעֲשׂוֹת--וְלֹא עָשׂוּ. {ס}	8 Yet they hearkened not, nor inclined their ear, but walked every one in the stubbornness of their evil heart; therefore I brought upon them all the words of this covenant, which I commanded them to do, but they did them not.' {S}
ט וַיֹּאמֶר יְהוָה, אֵלָי: נִמְצָא-קֶשֶׁר בְּאִישׁ יְהוּדָה, וּבְיֹשְׁבֵי יְרוּשָׁלִָם.	9 And the LORD said unto me: 'A conspiracy is found among the men of Judah, and among the inhabitants of Jerusalem.
י שָׁבוּ עַל-עֲו‍ֹנֹת אֲבוֹתָם הָרִאשֹׁנִים, אֲשֶׁר מֵאֲנוּ לִשְׁמוֹעַ אֶת-דְּבָרַי, וְהֵמָּה הָלְכוּ אַחֲרֵי אֱלֹהִים אֲחֵרִים, לְעָבְדָם; הֵפֵרוּ בֵית-יִשְׂרָאֵל, וּבֵית יְהוּדָה, אֶת-בְּרִיתִי, אֲשֶׁר כָּרַתִּי אֶת-אֲבוֹתָם. {ס}	10 They are turned back to the iniquities of their forefathers, who refused to hear My words; and they are gone after other gods to serve them; the house of Israel and the house of Judah have broken My covenant which I made with their fathers. {S}

And a bit later:

יג כִּי מִסְפַּר עָרֶיךָ, הָיוּ אֱלֹהֶיךָ יְהוּדָה; וּמִסְפַּר חֻצוֹת יְרוּשָׁלִַם, שַׂמְתֶּם מִזְבְּחוֹת לַבֹּשֶׁת--מִזְבְּחוֹת, לְקַטֵּר לַבָּעַל. {ס}

13 For according to the number of thy cities are thy gods, O Judah; and according to the number of the streets of Jerusalem have ye set up altars to the shameful thing, even altars to offer unto Baal. {S}

What were you thinking? What was so tempting about wood and stone? The feeling I had is also reflected earlier in Jeremiah (2:27):

כז אֹמְרִים לָעֵץ אָבִי אַתָּה, וְלָאֶבֶן אַתְּ ילדתני (יְלִדְתָּנוּ), כִּי-פָנוּ אֵלַי עֹרֶף, וְלֹא פָנִים; וּבְעֵת רָעָתָם יֹאמְרוּ, קוּמָה וְהוֹשִׁיעֵנוּ.

27 Who say to a tree: 'Thou art my father', and to a stone: 'Thou hast brought us forth', for they have turned their back unto Me, and not their face; but in the time of their trouble they will say: 'Arise, and save us.'

It wasn't only that they were worshiping idols. They were also being unethical in their interpersonal relations (Jeremiah 5:1: "שׁוֹטְטוּ בְּחוּצוֹת יְרוּשָׁלִַם, וּרְאוּ-נָא וּדְעוּ וּבַקְשׁוּ בִרְחוֹבוֹתֶיהָ, אִם-תִּמְצְאוּ אִישׁ, אִם-יֵשׁ עֹשֶׂה מִשְׁפָּט מְבַקֵּשׁ אֱמוּנָה", Jeremiah 5:28: "דִּין לֹא-דָנוּ, דִּין יָתוֹם וְיַצְלִיחוּ; וּמִשְׁפַּט אֶבְיוֹנִים, לֹא שָׁפָטוּ"), which somehow bothers me more but is also more understandable to me.

After all, how often do I walk by a poor person on the street, asking for money, and give nothing? (Almost every day.) How often do I lie around, watching television or reading blogs instead of doing justice and seeking truth? (Too often.) And what am I losing and what am I at the risk of destroying, by my willful blindness and inaction? (I do not know and, I daresay, on most days, I do not care.)

The messages of Jeremiah and Isaiah are clearly very simplistic: Do not sin; if you sin you will suffer greatly; oh, no! you've sinned and now great suffering is happening. But it is also poignant and so often the way of the world. We don't like to think of the connection between sin and suffering, because of its implication that suffering means that someone has sinned. But I don't know if I have such a problem with the reverse, that sin leads to suffering. If you don't treat the widow and the orphan right; if you become corrupt; if you worship material goods rather than God; your society will fall apart and everyone--even the suckling infants--will suffer.

This year, after thinking that I wasn't really getting into it over the past three weeks, it was almost too much for me to bear in the end: the totality of the sin and then the graphic descriptions of the near totality of the destruction. It washed over me, the brokenness of the people Israel, then and now, that was as great as the sea, and I felt (Jeremiah 8:23):

כג מִי-יִתֵּן רֹאשִׁי מַיִם, וְעֵינִי מְקוֹר דִּמְעָה; וְאֶבְכֶּה יוֹמָם וָלַיְלָה, אֵת חַלְלֵי בַת-עַמִּי. {ס}

23 Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people! {S}

It all seemed so pointless and avoidable yet utterly irreparable, and I couldn't stop obsessing how vastly different the state of the world might be if it hadn't gone that way. What if, instead of Tisha B'Av, a day when we remember injustice and turning to false gods and the subsequent destruction, we had a day to celebrate this (Isaiah 1:17)?

יז לִמְדוּ הֵיטֵב דִּרְשׁוּ מִשְׁפָּט, אַשְּׁרוּ חָמוֹץ; שִׁפְטוּ יָתוֹם, רִיבוּ אַלְמָנָה.

17 Learn to do well; seek justice, relieve the oppressed, judge the fatherless, plead for the widow.

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1. For example, I would have read [Lamentations 3:8]

ח גַּם כִּי אֶזְעַק וַאֲשַׁוֵּעַ, שָׂתַם תְּפִלָּתִי.

8 Yea, when I cry and call for help, He shutteth out my prayer.

and thought about times in my own life that my prayers have not been answered.
2. Deuteronomy 4:27:

כז וְהֵפִיץ יְהוָה אֶתְכֶם, בָּעַמִּים; וְנִשְׁאַרְתֶּם, מְתֵי מִסְפָּר, בַּגּוֹיִם, אֲשֶׁר יְנַהֵג יְהוָה אֶתְכֶם שָׁמָּה.

27 And the LORD shall scatter you among the peoples, and ye shall be left few in number among the nations, whither the LORD shall lead you away.

3. a fully enfranchised citizen, a native, a literate person, someone who appears to be part of the mainstream
4. someone who eats differently, who celebrates different holidays, someone who grew up in a bilingual household

Labels: Jewish holidays, Tisha B'Av, Torah (broadly defined)

בכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַים, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וְהִגַּדְתָּ לְבִנְךָ בַּיוֹם הַהוּא לֵאמֹר, בַּעֲבוּר זֶה עָשָׂה יי לִי בְּצֵאתִי מִמִּצְרַים. לֹא אֶת אֲבוֹתֵינוּ בִּלְבָד גָּאַל הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא, אֶלָּא אַף אוֹתָנוּ גָּאַל עִמָּהֶם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: וְאוֹתָנוּ הוֹצִיא מִשָׁם, לְמַעַן הָבִיא אֹתָנוּ, לָתֶת לָנוּ אֶת הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר נִשָׁבַּע לַאֲבֹתֵנוּ.

In every generation a person is obligated to regard himself as if he had come out of Egypt, as it is said: "You shall tell your child on that day, it is because of this that the L-rd did for me when I left Egypt."

The Holy One, blessed be He, redeemed not only our fathers from Egypt, but He redeemed also us with them, as it is said: "It was us that He brought out from there, so that He might bring us to give us the land that He swore to our fathers."

I love this passage. The only important word here, for my purposes, is the sixth word, "לִרְאוֹת", "to see." We are commanded to see ourselves as if we came out of Egypt. However, one of the extra haggadot I was using (the highly-recommended-by-me HaLaila Hazeh) pointed out that Mizrachi/Sephardi Jews instead, read, "להרְאוֹת," or "to show." We are commanded to show ourselves as if we came out of Egypt. This fits in with many Sephardi customs that include more active role-playing of leaving Egypt. This includes reenacting the way the Israelites were whipped (but with onions instead of whips) and the way that the Israelites carried the matzah out on their backs, because there wasn't time for it to bake.

In any case, this play-acting, this assuming of roles other than our own, of participants in the Greek symposia and of Persians who call greens "karpas" instead of "yirukot," is perfectly in keeping with the integrity of the Passover story. Whether we are free men or not, whether we are slaves or kings, today, we are all kings and we are all newly-liberated Israelites. We can, and are commanded to, in each generation, pick up whatever will make us most kingly and most recently-freed. If that means leaning on the left side, so be it! If that means getting new clothing, go for it! If that means drinking grape juice instead of wine (I can't handle four cups of wine no way no how without feeling sick), go for it! The point is to tell the story using the appropriate props of our time, of our generation (דּוֹר).

At one time, the closest "props" were Greek and Persian words and cultural artifacts. The fact that we borrowed extensively from other cultures in creating the seder is not an "oops!" moment in Judaism, it was the only way--the optimal way--that a seder could have been created. The point was to reenact how we imagine they must have felt, but in our own cultural milieu. Now we have our own props and I think that's just fantastic.


When I was at the second seder, watching the young assistant rabbi (a year younger than I! how'd that happen?) leading the seder for 35 people, I had a thought that I haven't had in 24 years: "Maybe I want to be a rabbi when I grow up." The last time I had that thought, I was four years old and someone told me that women couldn't be rabbis. (I no longer recall who imparted this information, but I know that I was four when I learned it.) I don't know if it's actually true, or just a fleeting feeling. I just love the seder so much, love the idea of collectively reenacting our shared history, love the collaborative nature of the event, love the panoply of voices that burst forth, love the richness of the ritual that gets deeper and better year after year, and love the multiplicity of haggadot that we use.

As my maternal grandfather, z"l, realized that I was going to continue my Torah studies beyond the fifteen years of day school--as I went to the Drisha summer high school program and then on to yeshiva in Israel for the year--he took to calling me "Rabette" (his own ingenious solution to what to call a woman rabbi). It was a very sweet moniker for me. I thought about both him and my grandmother, z"l, a lot over Pesach. This was my family's first Pesach without my Grandma, and her absence was keenly felt. (Especially when we got to:

"I will pass through the land of Egypt," I and not an angel;

"And I will smite every first-born in the land of Egypt," I and not a seraph;

"And I will carry out judgments against all the gods of Egypt," I and not a messenger;

"I, the L-rd," it is I, and none other!

which my grandmother always read with extreme conviction.)

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1. All of my free pre-Pesach Torah time has been taken up by learning Mishnah Peah, though, for Isaac Meyers, z"l's, shloshim [30-day anniversary of his death]. (The shloshim was erev Pesach, but the siyum isn't until May 5, which is good, because it meant that I could run errands and cook on erev Pesach instead of plowing through 2.5 chapters of Peah.) Peah is mostly very interesting (although becoming a little bit less so as I finish off the sixth chapter of eight). I would like to blog about it, but who has the time? This is why I want to quit my job and go and learn--so I can learn and then actually have time to process that learning and to turn it into something consumable by others. Yummmm....consumable. That reminds me of bread. On the subway yesterday, I found myself looking too intently at the gentleman across the way who was eating a bagel.

Labels: Jewish holidays, Pesach, Torah (broadly defined)

I was in Washington, DC for the first few days of Pesach, as well as the Thursday night, Friday, and Shabbat preceding Pesach. I was there visiting my sister, who lives there, as well as my aunt, who was in town from the West Coast. On Friday, I went to Safeway twice, CVS twice, and the hardware store once, and then made tsimmes and asparagus and broccoli. Oh, and I also snuck in a haircut, which was exciting because I despaired of finding the time for that vain and not precisely necessary pre-Yom Tov indulgence. All in all, I would say that I got off quite easy, since we were hosting the first seder and two other Shabbat/Yom Tov meals. (I was still totally and utterly exhausted from all of this, coming as it did on the heels of taxes and what little Pesach cleaning I managed to do, as well as shlepping down on the bus. The good news is that the government owed me about $40 more than I owed it.)

I went to the hardware store in search of an inexpensive pot for boiling water. My sister owns only fleishig [meat, or meaty if you're a Brit] pots for Pesach, and my aunt, the coffee devotee, needed something in which to boil water that would then be used to make coffee to which milk would be added. Hence, my quest.

The clerk at the hardware store questioned my desire to purchase "the cheapest pot you've got," so I (stupidly?) explained that I just needed it for Passover and it didn't need to be anything fancy, just something that would boil water.

"Oh, Passover!" he said. "Where are you going to get the blood?"

"The blood," I thought, rapidly calculating in my head the number of steps to the door, and envisioning a modern-day blood libel erupting right there in Dupont Circle.

Hoping he hadn't said blood at all, I said, "Uh, pardon?" with one eye still on the door.

He said, "You know, the blood to put on the door posts so God doesn't smite you!"

"Oh, that!" I chuckled, a little less nervously, no longer fearing for my life. "You mean the Pascal lamb and all of that? We don't do that anymore. That's just in the Bible."

I was never so happy to misunderstand someone in my life!

After first claiming that $18 was the cheapest pot he had, I probably justified any negative non-blood-libel-related stereotypes he had of Jews and pressed him further, until he came up with a $12 pot. (I later found one for $9.50, but decided it was better to get the two-quart pot for $12 than the one-quart pot for $9.50.)

Bonus links--get a head start for next year or find interesting things to share at your upcoming Yom Tov table!:

• An interesting list of haggadot, with some descriptions. (At times, the descriptions seem like they were written by the author, publisher, or a devoted fan. These are clearly not impartial reviews, at least in some cases.) The list includes pictures of the cover, so you can tell in a second if it's a haggadah you recognize or not. (I don't know about you, but I recognize and remember haggadot much more readily by their covers than anything else.) [English]
  
• The full, Ashkenazi, vocalized text of the haggadah, for all your blogging and commentary-writing needs. Here it is with some directions and notes. [Hebrew]
• The Passover haggadah in English. [English]
  
• Some full-length (apparently, I haven't checked) commentary on the haggadah, 12th-18th centuries. [Hebrew]
• New things that Chavatzelet Herzliya learned for Pesach 5768.

Enjoy, everyone, and chag sameyach! (Or happy holidays!)

Labels: Jewish holidays, Pesach, Torah (broadly defined), travel

This is still the best thing that I've ever written about Pesach/Passover, so I will, once again, start off by linking to it.

Labels: Jewish holidays, mental health, Pesach

I am spending the evening getting ready for Pesach. Yes, just the evening, and a few hours tomorrow. "Evening" may extend into "early morning hours," actually. I have no idea how I'm going to get everything done. I am supposed to kasher the microwave in my apartment tonight, but I don't know if I will have time.

Anyway, that's not what I stopped seeking chametz to write about. What I stopped to write about was the process of looking for stuff. (Specifically, I should be looking for chametz, without a bracha, tonight, since I will be heading to my sister's tomorrow afternoon. So far, I have found a bunch of kitniyot in my room--cough drops and Lemon Heads.)

More interestingly, though, I was looking for something for a few minutes, and it was in my pocket the whole time. I wondered what to make of that, metaphorically speaking. I think that we often look far and wide for things and they turn out to be in our pockets the whole time, so to speak. This time, it was just one of those fat Sharpie markers--no harm done. I used something else (a thin Sharpie marker) and found the fat one in my pocket (where I had put it so that it would be handy, knowing I would need it) after it was no longer useful.

What else have I been looking for tonight? I spent about an hour looking for two slim green (for chag ha'aviv) binders in which I collected some Pesach Torah last year. I am leading a seder again, for the third year in a row, and I need to prepare on Shabbat. (I won't have time before then.) Okay, let me rephrase that. I will not be preparing for the seder on Shabbat, erev Pesach, but, rather, will be learning Pesach Torah for its own sake. I find this stuff fascinating on its own, regardless of any future seder-leading responsibilities. I found them, after looking through 20+ boxes (from my move last August; most of the still-packed boxes contain books and papers) and sustaining a gash (okay, a small cut) on my right index finger.

Now that I have found my Sharpie (which I no longer need) and my Pesach Torah (which I definitely need), I need to go and actually look for some chametz, so as to fulfill the mitzvah of bedikat chametz in my own house. Without a bracha since it isn't erev Pesach or even erev erev Pesach (since that is when the mitzvah falls out this year, Thursday night). I don't think I need to use a candle/flashlight and a feather, do I? I guess I will do the flashlight thing. I'm not purposely putting stuff out to find because I'm not making a bracha anyway, so there's no fear of bracha l'vatala.

Chag sameyach, everyone!

Labels: Jewish holidays, Pesach

No, not that one.


In memory of Isaac Meyers, z"l, who loved Megillat Esther [the Book of Esther].


I wasn't really feeling it when we read through Genesis in the fall. All that family angst and drama was just too much for me. I couldn't handle it. I thought Exodus would be better, with its redemption and liberation and all of that. Really, it's much more uplifting than Genesis. Yet, I couldn't get into that, either.

But, finally, we've arrived at a place where my current mood and the Jewish calendar match: Purim.

Purim is the antithesis, in so many ways, of Pesach. Pesach is organized, mesudar, and carefully planned. God speaketh, God doeth, and we get the hell out of Egypt. Later, a highly organized ritual was created to commemorate said exodus. There's an outline, for crying out loud, at the beginning of many haggadot, containing a reminder of the order (literally, the "seder"), even though the book is right in front of you! You can't skip around, so it doesn't really help you to know, before you start, how many steps there are before shulchan orech, when you finally get to eat the egg in salt water. (Or at least some Ashkenazim do. Yum!) There is an order to the dinner ritual, an order to the ritual seder plate, and an order to the three identical matzot that you stack up. There are four questions, the same ones every year, and they're in order, too. There are four glasses of wine, and they, too, have an order. The songs at the end--also highly organized. It wouldn't make sense to have the ox precede the cat, would it? Or the four matriarchs follow the twelve tribes?

Purim? Not so much. Purim is disorganized.

That is clear from the story in Megillat Esther. One of the many things that I love about Megillat Esther is the suspense throughout. Will they or won't they survive? What will Haman do? What will Achashverosh do? (And why is he such a weak character, anyway? But that's a separate issue.) What will become of Esther in the king's palace? Of Mordechai outside it? What will happen when Esther approaches the king? Oooh, it gets me every year. I normally hate suspense (like, in movies and books), but in Megillat Esther, I love it!

Why is there so much suspense, though? If you think about it, there isn't really a plan for redemption in Esther. There isn't a plan at all. Purim is based on the randomness of things. Things just happen, tumble jumble, one after another. It could go one way or the other, and you don't know until it happens. The very name of the holiday--Purim, based on the Akkadian pūru meaning lottery--is random. Haman could have picked any day to plan to kill Mordechai and his ilk, and the day he came up with was utterly random. Just like it was random that Mordechai happened to overhear Bigtan and Teresh and thus save the king's life. Just like it was random that Haman walked into the palace to finally do away with Mordechai just when the king had insomnia and thus one of the most fun bits of the megillah comes into being--Mordechai, dressed as a king, being led around the city by his arch nemesis, Haman, who is calling out Mordechai's praises.

Life goes this way, I think, more often than it goes in the "God speaketh" way.

Even before Isaac died this week, it has become increasingly clear to me that things--many things--might not turn out as they ought or as I once thought they would. Things might not be what you would expect them to be at all, and really, nobody can predict much of anything. You think you know who someone is, but you don't. You think you have the rest of your life to get to know someone better, but you don't. You think that things ought to go a certain way, and they don't. (And then you have to deal with the repercussions of all of those things not going according to the plan in your head.)

This--this acknowledgement of things being what they are not, and not being what they are, and the sheer unknowability and lack of plannedness of it all--is nothing short of terrifying when we are forced to confront it. Purim, Rabbi Jan Uhrbach once taught me, is about joy with an undercurrent of fear. (In contradistinction to Yom Kippur, which is fear with an undercurrent of joy.) That suspense from Megillat Esther that I mentioned earlier, that unknown, unknowable, and apparently random quality of life, pervades Purim.

Oh, we try to deny the fear on Purim. We stamp our feet and twirl our graggers in an attempt to drown out what is, or what was, and we dress in costume to pretend to be what we are not. (My plan is to wear a purple, lit-up, punky wig. I.e., what I am not, a punk rocker. I am not going with full regalia, though. Just a wig.) We drink to confuse Haman and Mordechai, to make each into the other, to make each into what he is not. Purim is about what is not as much as it is about what is. As much as Pesach is about God's awesome, history-altering strength, Purim is about its absence. As is often noted, God's name does not appear in the megillah.

Purim tells us that there is no plan. If the king happens to pick the Jewess to be his new wife, we are all saved. And if not, not. If the king sides with his Jewess wife over his vizier, we are all saved. And if not, not. (As Esther herself says, "וְכַאֲשֶׁר אָבַדְתִּי, אָבָדְתִּי" Esth. 4:16) Unlike Pesach, there is no instruction manual.

Perhaps, as the Rabbis claim, there was a plan all along, but it was simply nistar, hidden.¹ Perhaps. But even if I convince myself that this is true--that God was there and God was pulling the strings all along--it really gives me very little comfort if we can't see him or sense him or feel him in the vicissitudes of life. When it seems and feels like there is no plan, God's hidden presence is of little comfort.

My mood and Purim's a good match this year not because I particularly feel the absence of God. I've known for a long time that God lets terrible things happen and that there isn't a damned thing we can do about it, and I still choose to believe in God. Nothing has changed about that.

Purim and I are a good match because, for the first time in my life, there is no plan. There is no "next step." I have outgrown my current job² but there's really no place up for me to go in my current field without going back to school. (A BA just ain't what it used to be, folks.) I am not even sure that I want to stay in my current field. Staying would basically mean more of the same, but I would have the additional responsibility of managing others. This does not sound like fun. And lest you retort that life is about more than having fun, I will amend that statement and say, "That sounds like a recipe for disaster, because I will be bored to tears before too long." (There must be something I can do that won't bore me to tears, but that will also pay the rent and for food and other necessities.)

Thus, I have decided to leave my current job and go off and do something else. Something unknown. I have begun to apply for things (being purposely obtuse), something that I have not done (except when applying for jobs), in a long, long time. Thus far, I am 0 for 2. I am waiting to hear back from a third place, and I have approximately two remaining places to apply, but after two rejections, it's hard to sally forth and apply to more programs. My life feels quite a bit like a lottery these days. Like a totally random, arbitrary decision made by people I don't know and may never meet, or by people who I know quite well, will at least on a superficial level determine what happens next. Can you stand the suspense?

Chag Purim sameyach!

[Last year's Purim posts here, here, here, and here. It was a prolific Purim, what can I say?]

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1. אסתר מן התורה מנין? (דברים לא) ואנכי הסתר אסתיר [Hulin 139b]
2. I do not blog about work as a rule, but (a) rules were meant to be broken (this is me practicing to be a punk rocker) and (b) my superiors at work already know of my plans to leave.

Labels: Jewish holidays, life, Pesach, Purim, Torah (broadly defined)

I am totally zonked. I was going to go to either a Martin Luther King, Jr. Day concert or a Tu Bishvat seder tonight, but I think I may do the unthinkable and go to sleep early instead. I'm a little bit tired after four wonderful days at LimmudNY.

In lieu of the seder and the concert, and to try to keep myself awake for a little while longer, I thought I would share some texts about the sheva minim (or shivat haminim), or the seven species, that are associated with the Land of Israel (and therefore Tu Bishvat, Shavuot, and Sukkot, among other holidays). (I shared some of these texts here, awhile back. ) I will then attempt to tie this, at least a little, to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Wheat

“R. Hanina ben Pazzi said: Thorns need not be hoed nor sown—they sprout on their own, rise straight up, and grow. But wheat—how much pain, how much labor is needed before it can be made to grow!”
–Midrash Genesis Rabbah 45:4

Barley

א"ר חייא בר אבא הרואה חטים בחלום ראה שלום שנאמר (תהילים קמז) השם גבולך שלום חלב חטים ישביעך הרואה שעורים בחלום סרו עונותיו שנאמר (ישעיהו ו) וסר עונך וחטאתך תכופר אמר רבי זירא אנא לא סלקי מבבל לא"י עד דחזאי שערי בחלמא

“"When a person sees wheat in his dream, it is sign of peace, as it says: "He makes your borders peace; He gives you in plenty the fat of wheat" (Psalms 147:14). When a person sees barley in a dream, it is a sign that his iniquities are removed, for it is said, ‘Your iniquity is removed and your sin is expiated.’ (Isaiah 6:7). R. Zera said: I did not decide to go up from Babylonia to the Land of Israel until I saw barley in a dream.”
–Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Berachot 57a

Grapes

רבי יוסי ברבי יהודה איש כפר הבבלי אומר: הלמד מן הקטנים, למה הוא דומה? לאוכל ענבים קהות, ושותה יין מגיתו; והלמד מן הזקנים, למה הוא דומה? לאוכל ענבים בשלות, ושותה יין ישן

“One who learns from the young, who is he like? Like one who eats dull [unripe] grapes and drinks wine from the wine- press. And one who learns from the elderly, who is he like? Like one who eats ripened grapes and drinks mature wine.”
– Ethics of the Fathers, 4:20

Figs

למה נמשלו דברי תורה כתאנה? מה תאנה זו כל זמן שאדם ממשמש בה מוצא בה תאנים אף דברי תורה כל זמן שאדם הוגה בהן מוצא בהן טעם

“Whenever you go to the fig tree, you are likely to find fruit to eat. Similarly, whenever you go to the Torah, you will find nourishment [lit. taste].”
–Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Eruvin 54a-b

Pomegranates

“‘Did the pomegranates blossom yet?’ [Song of Songs 7:13]—this refers to the young children who sit and learn Torah. They sit in rows like the seeds of the pomegranates.”
–Midrash Song of Songs Rabbah, 6:17

Olives

אמר רבי יהושע בן לוי למה נמשלו ישראל לזית לומר לך מה זית אין עליו נושרין לא בימות החמה ולא בימות הגשמים אף ישראל אין להם בטילה עולמית לא בעוה"ז ולא בעולם הבא

“Rabbi Yehoshuah Ben Levi said: ‘Why is Israel compared to an olive tree? Because just as the leaves of an olive tree do not fall off either in summer or winter. So too, the Jewish people shall not be cast off-- neither in this world nor in the World to Come.’”
–Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Menachot 53b

“The Sages taught: ‘Just as olive oil brings light into the world, so do the people of Israel bring light into the world.’”
–Midrash Song of Songs Rabbah, 1:2

Dates

יג צַדִּיק, כַּתָּמָר יִפְרָח; כְּאֶרֶז בַּלְּבָנוֹן יִשְׂגֶּה.	13 The righteous shall flourish like the [date] palm-tree; he shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon.
יד שְׁתוּלִים, בְּבֵית יְהוָה; בְּחַצְרוֹת אֱלֹהֵינוּ יַפְרִיחוּ.	14 Planted in the house of the LORD, they shall flourish in the courts of our God.
טו עוֹד, יְנוּבוּן בְּשֵׂיבָה; דְּשֵׁנִים וְרַעֲנַנִּים יִהְיוּ.	15 They shall still bring forth fruit in old age; they shall be full of sap and richness;
טז לְהַגִּיד, כִּי-יָשָׁר יְהוָה; צוּרִי, וְלֹא-עלתה (עַוְלָתָה) בּוֹ.	16 To declare that the LORD is upright, my Rock, in whom there is no unrighteousness.

“No part of the date palm is wasted: The fruit is eaten, the embryonic branches [lulav] are used for the Four Species of Sukkot, the mature fronds can cover a sukkah, the fibers between the branches can make strong ropes, the leaves can be woven into mats and baskets, the trunks can be used for rafters. Similarly, no one is worthless in Israel: some are scholars, some do good deeds, and some work for social justice.”
–Midrash Numbers Rabbah, 3:1

Quite fittingly, since today is both Tu Bishvat and Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, Dr. King quoted the following passage from Micah in his 1964 Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech:

וְהָיָה בְּאַחֲרִית הַיָּמִים, יִהְיֶה הַר בֵּית-יְהוָה נָכוֹן בְּרֹאשׁ הֶהָרִים, וְנִשָּׂא הוּא, מִגְּבָעוֹת; וְנָהֲרוּ עָלָיו, עַמִּים.	1 But in the end of days it shall come to pass, that the mountain of the Lord's house shall be established as the top of the mountains, and it shall be exalted above the hills; and peoples shall flow unto it.
ב וְהָלְכוּ גּוֹיִם רַבִּים, וְאָמְרוּ לְכוּ וְנַעֲלֶה אֶל-הַר-יְהוָה וְאֶל-בֵּית אֱלֹהֵי יַעֲקֹב, וְיוֹרֵנוּ מִדְּרָכָיו, וְנֵלְכָה בְּאֹרְחֹתָיו: כִּי מִצִּיּוֹן תֵּצֵא תוֹרָה, וּדְבַר-יְהוָה מִירוּשָׁלִָם.	2 And many nations shall go and say: 'Come ye, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, and to the house of the God of Jacob; and He will teach us of His ways, and we will walk in His paths'; for out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
ג וְשָׁפַט, בֵּין עַמִּים רַבִּים, וְהוֹכִיחַ לְגוֹיִם עֲצֻמִים, עַד-רָחוֹק; וְכִתְּתוּ חַרְבֹתֵיהֶם לְאִתִּים, וַחֲנִיתֹתֵיהֶם לְמַזְמֵרוֹת--לֹא-יִשְׂאוּ גּוֹי אֶל-גּוֹי חֶרֶב, וְלֹא-יִלְמְדוּן עוֹד מִלְחָמָה.	3 And He shall judge between many peoples, and shall decide concerning mighty nations afar off; and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.
ד וְיָשְׁבוּ, אִישׁ תַּחַת גַּפְנוֹ וְתַחַת תְּאֵנָתוֹ--וְאֵין מַחֲרִיד: כִּי-פִי יְהוָה צְבָאוֹת, דִּבֵּר.	4 But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig-tree; and none shall make them afraid; for the mouth of the LORD of hosts hath spoken.

It appears in the middle of his speech, in the following context, and is joined together with a verse from Isaiah:

I have the audacity to believe that peoples everywhere can have three meals a day for their bodies, education and culture for their minds, and dignity, equality and freedom for their spirits. I believe that what self-centered men have torn down men other-centered can build up. I still believe that one day mankind will bow before the altars of God and be crowned triumphant over war and bloodshed, and nonviolent redemptive good will proclaim the rule of the land. And the lion and the lamb shall lie down together and every man shall sit under his own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid. I still believe that we shall overcome!

In Keith D. Miller's Voice of Deliverance: The Language of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Its Sources, he discusses how, as part of his homiletic style, Dr. King effectively yoked together separate biblical prophecies of redemption to create new images that flow naturally. I had to do several searches before I was satisfied that "And the lion and the lamb shall lie down together and every man shall sit under his own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid" does not appear anywhere, because it sounded so right to me.

This was a common formulation of Dr. King's. He also used it in a beautiful, moving sermon he delivered at the Riverside Church in New York City, on April 30, 1967, titled "Why I Am Opposed to the War in Vietnam":

Now it isn't easy to stand up for truth and for justice. Sometimes it means being frustrated. When you tell the truth and take a stand, sometimes it means that you will walk the streets with a burdened heart. Sometimes it means losing a job...means being abused and scorned. It may mean having a seven, eight year old child asking a daddy, "Why do you have to go to jail so much?"....We shall overcome because the bible is right: "You shall reap what you sow." With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our world into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to speed up the day when justice will roll down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream. With this faith we will be able to speed up the day when the lion and the lamb will lie down together, and every man will sit under his own vine and fig tree, and none shall be afraid because the words of the Lord have spoken it. With this faith we will be able to speed up the day when all over the world we will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we're free at last!" With this faith, we'll sing it as we're getting ready to sing it now. Men will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. And nations will not rise up against nations, neither shall they study war anymore. And I don't know about you, I ain't gonna study war no more.

Please go and read the whole thing. It's lovely and I don't do it justice by only quoting an excerpt.

Here's another one I simply can't resist sharing. It's from a speech called "The American Dream" that Dr. King delivered at the Ebenezer Baptist Church, in Atlanta, GA, on July 4, 1965, and, again, you should read the whole thing:

We have a great dream. It started way back in 1776, and God grant that America will be true to her dream.

About two years ago now....I tried to tell the nation about a dream I had. I must confess to you this morning that since that sweltering August afternoon in 1963, my dream has often turned into a nightmare; I’ve seen it shattered. I saw it shattered one night on Highway 80 in Alabama when Mrs. Viola Liuzzo was shot down. I had a nightmare and saw my dream shattered one night in Marion, Alabama, when Jimmie Lee Jackson was shot down. I saw my dream shattered one night in Selma when Reverend Reeb was clubbed to the ground by a vicious racist and later died. And oh, I continue to see it shattered as I walk through the Harlems of our nation and see sometimes ten and fifteen Negroes trying to live in one or two rooms. I’ve been down to the Delta of Mississippi since then, and I’ve seen my dream shattered as I met hundreds of people who didn’t earn more than six or seven hundred dollars a week. I’ve seen my dream shattered as I’ve walked the streets of Chicago and seen Negroes, young men and women, with a sense of utter hopelessness because they can’t find any jobs. And they see life as a long and desolate corridor with no exit signs. And not only Negroes at this point. I’ve seen my dream shattered because I’ve been through Appalachia, and I’ve seen my white brothers along with Negroes living in poverty. And I’m concerned about white poverty as much as I’m concerned about Negro poverty.

So yes, the dream has been shattered, and I have had my nightmarish experiences, but I tell you this morning once more that I haven’t lost the faith. I still have a dream that one day all of God’s children will have food and clothing and material well-being for their bodies, culture and education for their minds, and freedom for their spirits.

I still have a dream this morning: one day all of God’s black children will be respected like his white children.

I still have a dream this morning that one day the lion and the lamb will lie down together, and every man will sit under his own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid.

I still have a dream this morning that one day all men everywhere will recognize that out of one blood God made all men to dwell upon the face of the earth.

I still have a dream this morning that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill will be made low; the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places straight; and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

I still have a dream this morning that truth will reign supreme and all of God’s children will respect the dignity and worth of human personality. And when this day comes the morning stars will sing together and the sons of God will shout for joy.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness."

This constructed verse also appears in speeches reproduced here ("Where Do We Go From Here?" 1967) and here ("A Christmas Sermon on Peace," 1967, delivered only a few months before his death) and, I am sure, in other places as well.

Musing about figs and grapes and Dr. Martin Luther King brought two thoughts to mind.

The first is about the power of words and, in particular, of imagery. Both in these three speeches, and in the quotes I shared above, metaphor and analogy are used in very strong ways. Sometimes I get tired of empty, fake, powerless words, and I fall into a slight funk, thinking that all words ultimately lack power and substance. As someone whose favorite activities revolve around words, this is disheartening. But when I read these words from the Midrash or from Dr. King, I remember that words have tremendous power--first to make us feel, and then to make us act.

The second thought I had was: Where are these leaders today? Where are the people who loudly proclaim that "no one is worthless in Israel" and that "one day all men everywhere will recognize that out of one blood God made all men to dwell upon the face of the earth"? At the LimmudNY conference (about which I should certainly write more another time), while studying the words of Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits with Rahel Berkovits (made me want to learn and read a lot more) and seeing a documentary about Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (as well as personal stories about him from one of his shamashim), I felt sad that the Modern Orthodox community does not have leaders who come anywhere close to these men in intellectual achievements, creative thought, or personal righteousness. Of course none of these men were perfect. And, of course it's sad that there have been so few women who have fulfilled this kind of role. But I feel like we have no one today--nobody in public American life and nobody in Modern Orthodox Jewish life--who comes close to these men in using their words and power so wisely.

Happy Tu Bishvat and thank you, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.!

Labels: Jewish holidays, Torah (broadly defined), words

I am half-sitting on my bed, watching the candles, un-ergonomically typing with the laptop on my lap. It's worth it, though, to be able to hang out with the glowing candles. Last night was the first night that I lit at a reasonable hour (5:45 pm) and therefore had the time and stamina to sing Maoz Tzur [Rock of Ages] and then just watch the candles and try to think about what Chanukah was doing to/for me, and I for it, this year. I repeated this tonight by lighting at 6:25 pm, after davening Maariv [the evening service], which furthered my reflective mood.

Chanukah is so much nicer when you light before 10 pm. I hate how many nights I've lit at 10 or 11 pm and then struggled to stay awake until the candles burned out, since I refuse to sleep in a room with any candles burning. It is unfortunate that I've lit alone, and so late, the first three nights this year. On Friday afternoon, there was a very hurried dash from Chanukah candles to Shabbat candles to a run, with food, to get into the eruv before shkiya. Working on the logistics of lighting is something I should be more attentive to in the future, since I can tell what a difference an earlier and less hurried lighting makes.

Aside from that, though, I am sad that Chanukah is so firmly associated with loss in my mind these days. It's not enough that I associate the loss of my friend Shira with Chanukah, and also the time I spent with my grandfather before he died, but now I also associate my deceased grandmother with Chanukah? Eight nights in a row is too many to dwell on death, absent shiva/shloshim, when it is natural to dwell on death for so long. It's also too much sadness for one holiday. By Shabbat, I couldn't stand it anymore!

So last night, watching the candles struggle valiantly to stay lit between the frigid cold of the glass window and the hot air wafting out of the clanking radiator underneath, I thought about lighting candles at the darkest time of the year and how Chanukah could stop being solely about sadness and loss for me.

I thought about the miracle of Chanukah being not that we won some short-lived military victory against the Seleucids, or that the oil lasted eight days instead of one, but that we bother to light candles during this dark, depressing time of year at all, rather than huddling under the covers and waiting for the sunlight to return.

I thought about this idea a lot in the years following Shira's death, when I tried to wrap my mind around the idea of celebrating anything on anyone's yahrzeit. Lighting candles? Singing hallel? Whatever for? It seems impossible, but, lo and behold!, through the intervention of time, fading memory, and increased focus on the gifts we received from a person during her lifetime, we somehow live to celebrate again.

In my more classically frum days, I would have dismissed the idea of comparing Chanukah to any other religion or culture's practice of lighting candles around the winter solstice as ecumenical nonsense. But you know what? Like so many other things that I was sure of when I was eighteen, it turns out that I was wrong. It's not that Chanukah isn't about the military victory and magic oil, but that is not all its about. One of the things that I love about Judaism is the way that it incorporates earlier practices into theologically meaningful holidays. The idea of lighting candles for eight days during the darkest time of the year precedes Chanukah according to the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Avodah Zarah:

ת"ר לפי שראה אדם הראשון יום שמתמעט והולך אמר אוי לי שמא בשביל שסרחתי עולם חשוך בעדי וחוזר לתוהו ובוהו וזו היא מיתה שנקנסה עלי מן השמים עמד וישב ח' ימים בתענית [ובתפלה] כיון שראה תקופת טבת וראה יום שמאריך והולך אמר מנהגו של עולם הוא הלך ועשה שמונה ימים טובים

“Our rabbis taught that when Adam saw the days becoming shorter, he said: 'Woe is to me, because I have sinned and the world is returning to chaos.' He prayed and fasted until the winter equinox when he noticed the days becoming longer. 'This is the way of the world,' he said, and he established an eight day festival.' (Tractate Avoda Zara, 8a)

I don't know about you, but I've had days during the darkness of December where I've certainly thought, "Woe is to me...the world is returning to chaos." Whether I attribute this to my own sins or some more modern variation thereof is a separate matter entirely. But, my God! I don't think you have to have full-fledged Seasonal Affective Disorder to fear the clutching darkness of winter!

Aside from the candles to brighten our path, we have another aid on which to lean. And that is God, the God who is "yotzer or u'voreh choshech," who "creates light and creates darkness." This bracha, or blessing, from Shacharit [the morning service], is one of my all-time favorite blessings. We Jews don't believe in a God who is all lightness. We believe in a God who creates darkness, also. We don't understand the darkness a lot of the time, but we believe that it comes from God. Hand-in-hand with this belief comes the faith that, as the morning follows the night, spiritual and emotional light inevitably follow dark. The world is a mean, nasty place sometimes. Some nights, some Decembers of the soul, seem interminable. But they are not. Dawn will approach, and whether we try to hasten its approach by lighting candles or by sitting in front of a light box (10,000 lux for about fifteen minutes a day is the recommended dose) or not, it will come.

Despite our worst fears, God will not return the world to chaos. That is the covenant that God made with Noah and all of humanity after the flood. This is the miracle of Chanukah to me, right now--that we have faith in "yotzer or u'voreh choshech," that we light candles in the darkness, that we combine our faith in God's hand in our lives with our own efforts at hastening the arrival of the dawn.

Tonight, after reciting Maariv and before lighting candles, I recited the 30th Psalm, as is customary during Chanukah, because of the connection between the Maccabean rededication of the Temple and the original dedication of the Temple. The verses that particularly speak to the idea of a God that creates light and darkness, and a God who promises not to let us languish in the pit forever although he makes no promises against us falling into that dark space in the first place, are highlighted below.

א מִזְמוֹר: שִׁיר-חֲנֻכַּת הַבַּיִת לְדָוִד.	1 A Psalm; a Song at the Dedication of the House; of David.
ב אֲרוֹמִמְךָ יְהוָה, כִּי דִלִּיתָנִי; וְלֹא-שִׂמַּחְתָּ אֹיְבַי לִי.	2 I will extol thee, O LORD, for Thou hast raised me up, and hast not suffered mine enemies to rejoice over me.
ג יְהוָה אֱלֹהָי-- שִׁוַּעְתִּי אֵלֶיךָ, וַתִּרְפָּאֵנִי.	3 O LORD my God, I cried unto Thee, and Thou didst heal me;
ד יְהוָה--הֶעֱלִיתָ מִן-שְׁאוֹל נַפְשִׁי; חִיִּיתַנִי, מיורדי- (מִיָּרְדִי-) בוֹר.	4 O LORD, Thou broughtest up my soul from the nether-world; Thou didst keep me alive, that I should not go down to the pit.
ה זַמְּרוּ לַיהוָה חֲסִידָיו; וְהוֹדוּ, לְזֵכֶר קָדְשׁוֹ.	5 Sing praise unto the LORD, O ye His godly ones, and give thanks to His holy name.
ו כִּי רֶגַע, בְּאַפּוֹ-- חַיִּים בִּרְצוֹנוֹ: בָּעֶרֶב, יָלִין בֶּכִי; וְלַבֹּקֶר רִנָּה.	6 For His anger is but for a moment, His favour is for a life-time; {N} weeping may tarry for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.
ז וַאֲנִי, אָמַרְתִּי בְשַׁלְוִי-- בַּל-אֶמּוֹט לְעוֹלָם.	7 Now I had said in my security: 'I shall never be moved.'
ח יְהוָה-- בִּרְצוֹנְךָ, הֶעֱמַדְתָּה לְהַרְרִי-עֹז: הִסְתַּרְתָּ פָנֶיךָ; הָיִיתִי נִבְהָל.	8 Thou hadst established, O LORD, in Thy favour my mountain as a stronghold-- {N} Thou didst hide Thy face; I was affrighted.
ט אֵלֶיךָ יְהוָה אֶקְרָא; וְאֶל-אֲדֹנָי, אֶתְחַנָּן.	9 Unto Thee, O LORD, did I call, and unto the LORD I made supplication:
י מַה-בֶּצַע בְּדָמִי, בְּרִדְתִּי אֶל-שָׁחַת: הֲיוֹדְךָ עָפָר; הֲיַגִּיד אֲמִתֶּךָ.	10 'What profit is there in my blood, when I go down to the pit? {N} Shall the dust praise Thee? shall it declare Thy truth?
יא שְׁמַע-יְהוָה וְחָנֵּנִי; יְהוָה, הֱיֵה-עֹזֵר לִי.	11 Hear, O LORD, and be gracious unto me; LORD, be Thou my helper.'
יב הָפַכְתָּ מִסְפְּדִי, לְמָחוֹל לִי: פִּתַּחְתָּ שַׂקִּי; וַתְּאַזְּרֵנִי שִׂמְחָה.	12 Thou didst turn for me my mourning into dancing; Thou didst loose my sackcloth, and gird me with gladness;
יג לְמַעַן, יְזַמֶּרְךָ כָבוֹד-- וְלֹא יִדֹּם: יְהוָה אֱלֹהַי, לְעוֹלָם אוֹדֶךָּ.	13 So that my glory may sing praise to Thee, and not be silent; {N} O LORD my God, I will give thanks unto Thee for ever.

God does hide his face. We do become frightened as Adam did when the days seemed about to shrink into oblivion. But God eventually turns our mourning into dancing. God promises us that nothing that is bad will be bad forever. Redemption will come. We will be girded with gladness one day, and live to praise God again.

It sometimes seems like folly to praise the God who brings darkness, the God who causes the days to shorten, the God who takes away the dawn of friends, family, and life itself, and who causes us to gird ourselves with sackcloth in the beginning. I choose to believe, instead, that such praise of God is part of the miracle of faith, of recovery, and of the dawn that follows the darkness.

[And now the candles are all burned down, and I have a Chanukah party to attend.]

Labels: Chanukah, Jewish holidays, life, Torah (broadly defined)