Introduction: something’s burning
The time is urgent. As our ancestors put it in that ancient compendium of ethical sound bites called Pirke Avot,
רַבִּי טַרְפוֹן אוֹמֵר, הַיּוֹם קָצָר וְהַמְּלָאכָה מְרֻבָּה, וְהַפּוֹעֲלִים עֲצֵלִים, וְהַשָּׂכָר הַרְבֵּה, וּבַעַל הַבַּיִת דּוֹחֵק
Rabbi Tarfon said: The day is short and the work is much, and the workers are lazy, and the reward is great, and the Master of the house is pressing.
The day is short: we’re all going to die. The only question is how you we meet our death, and whether we’ll be able to say “this is what the work of my life meant” and feel good about it, at some point before that.
The secular world would bid me goodbye after my death with a eulogy, which is Greek for “speaking well [of a person]”. But Jewish culture requires that you see me off with a hesped, which literally refers to striking, as we do I the stylized gesture we use during the Ashamnu. So a hesped must be a message that goes straight to the heart. No niceties. Just the facts, ma’am.
The facts as we know them at this moment are somewhat grim. As the sign said in 2019: (see sign above)
The recent Portland and Salem school walkout to demand action on the climate emergency reminds me of a similar walkout in 2019, on Sept 20, exactly four years ago. That’s where I took the photograph of the sign above. It seems that a lifetime has passed since then, as we passed through COVID lockdown, catastrophic fires and more – and many people’s lifetimes have ended. But some things remain the same: the climate emergency is still with us.
Children are marching.
Children are taking fossil fuel companies to court.
Children are insisting that we do not look away from the Emperor without clothes.
אָמַר רַבִּי יוֹחָנָן: מִיּוֹם שֶׁחָרַב בֵּית הַמִּקְדָּשׁ, נִיטְּלָה נְבוּאָה מִן הַנְּבִיאִים וְנִיתְּנָה לַשּׁוֹטִים וְלַתִּינוֹקוֹת.
Rabbi Yoḥanan said: From the day that the Temple was destroyed, prophecy was taken from the prophets and given to shutim and children.
“Shutim” from the Hebrew word pashut, or p’shat, the simple, obvious meaning of something. Tonight I invite you to join me in attempting not to look away from the simple and the obvious.
I. A Time for Prophecy
Following the lead of our prophetic children about our existential situation, let’s look further to our ancient prophets for guidance.
Amos’ plumb line 7.7-8
כֹּ֣ה הִרְאַ֔נִי וְהִנֵּ֧ה ה’ נִצָּ֖ב עַל־חוֹמַ֣ת אֲנָ֑ךְ וּבְיָד֖וֹ אֲנָֽךְ
This is what I was shown: HaShem was standing on a wall checked with a plumb line while holding a plumb line.
וַיֹּ֨אמֶר ה’ אֵלַ֗י מָֽה־אַתָּ֤ה רֹאֶה֙ עָמ֔וֹס וָאֹמַ֖ר אֲנָ֑ךְ וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֲדֹנָ֗י הִנְנִ֨י שָׂ֤ם אֲנָךְ֙…לֹא־אוֹסִ֥יף ע֖וֹד עֲב֥וֹר לֽוֹ
And HaShem asked me, “What do you see, Amos?” “A plumb line,” I replied. And my Sovereign declared, “I am going to apply a plumb line; I will not continue to overlook [the sin].
Jeremiah’s almond tree 1.10-12
עַל־הַגּוֹיִם֙ וְעַל־הַמַּמְלָכ֔וֹת לִנְת֥וֹשׁ וְלִנְת֖וֹץ וּלְהַאֲבִ֣יד וְלַהֲר֑וֹס לִבְנ֖וֹת וְלִנְטֽוֹעַ
For all nations and kingdoms
[there is a time]
Of uproot and downturn,
Of destruction and overthrowing,
Even as there is a time to build and to plant.
וַיְהִ֤י דְבַר־יה’ אֵלַ֣י לֵאמֹ֔ר מָה־אַתָּ֥ה רֹאֶ֖ה יִרְמְיָ֑הוּ וָאֹמַ֕ר מַקֵּ֥ל שָׁקֵ֖ד אֲנִ֥י רֹאֶֽה׃
The word of HaShem came to me: What do you see, Jeremiah?
I replied: I see a branch of an almond tree.
וַיֹּ֧אמֶר ה’ אֵלַ֖י הֵיטַ֣בְתָּ לִרְא֑וֹת כִּֽי־שֹׁקֵ֥ד אֲנִ֛י עַל־דְּבָרִ֖י לַעֲשֹׂתֽוֹ׃
HaShem said to me:
You have seen right,
For I am [shoked] watchful to bring My word to pass.
Malakhi’s day burning like a kiln 3.19
כִּֽי־הִנֵּ֤ה הַיּוֹם֙ בָּ֔א בֹּעֵ֖ר כַּתַּנּ֑וּר וְהָי֨וּ כׇל־זֵדִ֜ים וְכׇל־עֹשֵׂ֤ה רִשְׁעָה֙ קַ֔שׁ וְלִהַ֨ט אֹתָ֜ם הַיּ֣וֹם הַבָּ֗א אָמַר֙ ה’ אֲשֶׁ֛ר לֹא־יַעֲזֹ֥ב לָהֶ֖ם שֹׁ֥רֶשׁ וְעָנָֽף׃
For lo! That day is at hand, burning like an oven. All the arrogant and all the doers of evil shall be straw, and the day that is coming—says HaShem —shall burn them to ashes, and there will be left of them neither stock nor boughs.
II. What can we learn from our children?
- Rule #1: Be Here Now. Children are experts in living in the moment. No time travel; stop being goal-oriented i.e. “all those years for what.” Not living in the moment is actually one of the more dire curses listed in the book of Deuteronomy:
בַּבֹּ֤קֶר תֹּאמַר֙ מִֽי־יִתֵּ֣ן עֶ֔רֶב וּבָעֶ֥רֶב תֹּאמַ֖ר מִֽי־יִתֵּ֣ן בֹּ֑קֶר מִפַּ֤חַד לְבָֽבְךָ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר תִּפְחָ֔ד וּמִמַּרְאֵ֥ה עֵינֶ֖יךָ אֲשֶׁ֥ר תִּרְאֶֽה׃
During the night you will wish it was morning, and in the morning you will say if only this day was over—because of what your heart shall dread and your eyes shall see.
Planning ahead is a trap: “I’ll do that tomorrow” or as our tradition teaches, “one who says ‘I’ll find time to study tomorrow’ will never have time to study.” What would your life today look like, ethically, if you knew you didn’t have tomorrow? Repent one day before your death.
Be absorbed in the moment. Make the moment your world.
2. Rule #2: Make a Wish: stop using battle language in which you either have to win or be a loser, because we’re all going to lose. Instead, be kind.
I think it was Anne Roiphe who, in the New York Times years ago, called attention to the way we use the language of war to talk about illness, which to the sufferer and their loved ones is clearly a moment of impending catastrophe. The language is irresponsible, she suggested: does that mean that those who die aren’t fighting hard enough? That they are “losers”?
There is another way of facing a challenge, a way that does not require “keeping your powder dry”, “taking no prisoners”, or wielding some kind of “secret weapon.”
Instead, perhaps we can find meaning and purpose in gently but stubbornly insisting on wielding kindness. Many years ago I was fortunate enough to know a man, a Holocaust survivor, who became a hotel owner in Central Florida. He created an organization called Give Kids the World solelyto support the huge number of dying children whose last wish was to go to Disney World. This came about because one day he had agreed to fund the hotel stay of a family whose child, Amy, was dying of leukemia; he later discovered that she had died without ever making the trip, due to the backlog in hotel room reservations. He vowed that he would see that this never happened again if he could help it.
He was a person who had experienced Auschwitz as a child, and who may very well have learned from that personal horror that a child’s life can be unfair and even tragic, but he saw no reason for that experience to be the only way to understand life. His name was Henri Landwirth ז“ל and his story is, to me, an example of a person who succeeded in rising above the hegemonic narrative of his life.
The “hegemonic narrative” is the context out of which we understand the story of our lives. Most of us go through life never even being aware of it, but all our understanding of “how things should be” and “what matters” depends upon it. The way we grow up and the experiences we undergo, the things we are taught and the role modeling we are shown, all create it.
Yet the hegemonic narrative of our lives, the basic assumptions we make about how things are, can change. My understanding of what our prophetic children is telling us is that it must change.
If your basic belief is that you have to win some experiential battle, you’re wrong. If you assume you must set a goal in the future and meet it, you’re mistaken. And if you think you can take care of yourself all by yourself, you may indeed end up in the same place as the rest of us, but you’ll be lonely – and more, you’ll be unable to help someone else.
3. Rule #3: Go Find Mommy
אָמַר רַבִּי חֲנִינָא בַּר פָּפָּא: כׇּל הַנֶּהֱנֶה מִן הָעוֹלָם הַזֶּה בְּלֹא בְּרָכָה כְּאִילּוּ גּוֹזֵל לְהַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא וּכְנֶסֶת יִשְׂרָאֵל, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״גּוֹזֵל אָבִיו וְאִמּוֹ וְאוֹמֵר אֵין פָּשַׁע חָבֵר הוּא לְאִישׁ מַשְׁחִית״. וְאֵין ״אָבִיו״ אֶלָּא הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״הֲלֹא הוּא אָבִיךְ קָּנֶךָ״, וְאֵין ״אִמּוֹ״ אֶלָּא כְּנֶסֶת יִשְׂרָאֵל, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״אַל תִּטּוֹשׁ תּוֹרַת אִמֶּךָ״.
Rabbi Ḥanina bar Pappa said: Anyone who derives benefit from this world without a blessing, it is as if he stole from God and the community of Israel, as it is stated: “Whoever robs his father and his mother and says: It is no transgression, he is the companion of a destroyer” (Proverbs 28:24). The phrase, his father, refers to none other than HaShem, as it is stated: “Is HaShem not your father Who created you.” (Deuteronomy 32:6). The phrase his mother refers to none other than the community of Israel, as it is stated: “do not forsake the Torah of your mother” (Proverbs 1:8). The mention of the Torah as emanating from the mouth of the mother, apparently means that your mother is the community of Israel.
This powerful rabbinical comment asserts that we have parents and it is destructive to attempt to ignore or deny our connection to all the people that nurtures, or parents, us. We didn’t appear here all by ourselves; we were nurtured into being and kept alive. And we all need our mommy – we all need community to hold us when the narrative of our lives is uncertain and scary.
We don’t know if it’s going to be all right. Our community exists so that we don’t have to consider that possibility alone.
Conclusion: Only Love
When I meet with a brit mitzvah family to talk about the process of preparing to be called to the Torah for the first time, I try to explain Jewish prayer in community by using the metaphor of driving a bus. Every Shabbat morning the Shir Tikvah community gathers to daven (an undefinable Yiddish word which means so much more than prayer).
Because prayer is supposed to move you, you can think about joining for prayer as getting on a bus together. Every Shabbat morning different people serves as shatz, the person who leads the prayers. It’s like driving the bus. Anyone can do it who has learned how. On a morning when one of our young people is called to the Torah for the first time in the ritual of brit mitzvah, we give them a turn at it.
Our human destiny is usefully regarded through the lens of this metaphor. We are all together on a bus. We’re not able to control the driver; we’re not able to be double check the safety judgements of the bus company; we are not guaranteed that some accident won’t happen along the way.
There are signposts that we’re passing along the way on our shared journey. Some of them are warning signs. There are plumb lines clearly showing where the driver is going astray, and more. It doesn’t look good. The children among us are asking what is going on, and the children are less willing – and less able – to be distracted.
As a spiritual community that is dedicated to caring for each other as we share the space inside our bus, we have to do our best to hold hands and find mommy, by which we mean the community of Israel, as Rav Hanina bar Pappa said. We have to be here for each other now, which means to find the courage not to look away, and the willingness to open our hearts to each other and to our children, who seek what we don’t want to see.
It may be that all we can do now is perfect our understanding of the ethics of the apocalypse. We may very well be going off a cliff, and it matters, it matters, it matters how we do it. Hold hands, and hold on.
If nothing can save us from death,
At least let love save us from life.
– Pablo Neruda
Torah for the 21st Century by Rabbi Ariel Stone 