עֲלֵ֣ה ׀ רֹ֣אשׁ הַפִּסְגָּ֗ה וְשָׂ֥א עֵינֶ֛יךָ יָ֧מָּה וְצָפֹ֛נָה וְתֵימָ֥נָה וּמִזְרָ֖חָה וּרְאֵ֣ה בְעֵינֶ֑יךָ כִּי־לֹ֥א תַעֲבֹ֖ר אֶת־הַיַּרְדֵּ֥ן הַזֶּֽה׃
Go up to the summit of Pisgah and gaze about, to the west, the north, the south, and the east. Look at it well, for you shall not go across yonder Jordan. (Dev. 3.27)
Moshe Rabbenu is held up in song and story as the greatest of leaders and the most amazing human being as well, humble despite his unparalleled access to the Divine, and loyal to a fault to his people. But he is also a mere flesh and blood human being, and in this week’s Torah narrative, he must face what we all, sooner or later, share in common; human limits. Or, by another name: mortality.
One of the prisms of interpretation through which we relate to the Torah is as the story of human birth, growth, and maturation. In her Biography of Ancient Israel Ilana Pardes presents the wilderness wandering as a people’s adolescent development in which we might see our own, and the death of Moshe in our present Book of Devarim symbolizing the inevitable loss of those who led the way for us in our youth.
Yet it is possible to grow old without growing up, and Jewish ethical tradition comes to answer the question: how might we, following in the footsteps of our ancient myths, avail ourselves of the learning implicit in this last book of our Torah? Especially this year, how do we of the Jewish community follow along with the arc of this next seven Weeks of Consolation, from Tisha B’Av to Rosh HaShanah? The fears and anxiety distracting us are overwhelming.
The answer is like all good Jewish answers: on the one hand and on the other hand. In one hand each of us is precious and worth the world, and on the other hand, each of us is but dust and ashes. And that neither of our hands is going to achieve what we are able to do when we find a way to join them with others.
On this Shabbat Nakhamu, we are invited to let ourselves be consoled, even in the face of much that is yet and will always be challenging to our peace of mind. To find consolation not from miraculous deliverance from without but because we can finally see that we’re not supposed to be perfect and conquer the world, nor can we save it. To find relief in seeing a bit more clearly the value in our limited lives, and learn to cherish the magical moments that shine forth from every human being when we encounter them as we ourselves wish to be encountered: not perfect. Not constant. But here, and capable of doing something.
We are not immortal; we cannot have it all; we will not always get what we want. On this Shabbat, as we gaze with Moshe across to the place we will never go, may we find the spiritual maturity to celebrate the day and its possibilities, even in the face of all our grief. And may we find a way to do it together; to lift each other up and in so doing find our own individual burdens lightened, as well.
May we find consolation in our place with each other, within the holy community we are building, learning by learning, mitzvah by mitzvah.
Torah for the 21st Century by Rabbi Ariel Stone 