At the Confluence of Ocean & Generations
This post is my Shabbat Bo message to the Glacier Jewish Community in the Flathead Valley of Northwestern Montana, where I serve as spiritual leader.
…בֹּ֖א אֶל־פַּרְעֹ֑ה כִּֽי־אֲנִ֞י הִכְבַּ֤דְתִּי אֶת־לִבּוֹ֙ …
Then יהוה said to Moses, “Go to Pharaoh. For I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers, in order that I may display these My signs among them, and that you may recount in the hearing of your child and of your child’s child how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My signs among them—in order that you may know that I am יהוה.”
This week, I have been on vacation (mostly), in Florida with three of the four people who remain within this plane of existence as my elders — the generation of parents, aunts and uncles. My marriage to Eric, a great treasure in an of itself, gifted me two addition parents. My mother- and father-in-love have a place across the road from the beach. Regardless of the weather, I spent as much time as I could walking this strip of beach, my feet in the Atlantic Ocean. I was keenly aware that every step was a gift of place and time and physical ability. Especially in a week when my family and friends suffered frigid temperatures, snow, ice, and rain, my gratitude was abundant.
The beach is a place where I feel deeply attuned to the rhythms of the Oneness of all things. The tide rises and recedes in a dance with the moon. The ocean water comes in and goes out bringing the gifts of the sea and taking them back in the next moment. The surf takes its rhythmic cues from the weather patterns. Balance is achieved effortlessly, it seems. The steady, infinite and Eternal of the Earth’s waters — above and below — offer a vastness and constancy that hold my attention and dissolve all the heaviness of the world’s human condition that I carry on my heart. My mind releases all irritation and worry and my spirit is buoyed. The wellness I feel when I recognize what an infinitesimal place I occupy in the universe of time and space is unique at the beach.
From the beach, I moved up the coast and inland a bit to spend several beautiful days with my Aunt Zara, the last remaining member of the generations of my Mom’s family. For 58 years, she has made me feel like a cherished being. My aunt and I never run out of subjects to explore or stories to tell. We love and remember people and places that are sacred to both of us and that we, alone, are left to hold. We discuss thorny relationships that were never resolved in this lifetime and my thoughts turn to this week’s Torah portion about the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart.
If we read the pshat/surface or straight meaning of the words written on the parchment, it is God who hardens Pharaoh’s heart. This is a disturbing idea – hardening the heart of a human ruler in order to show Supernal Power. This is not how I imagine the Divine. And, most Jews do not read Torah this literally. We have a long tradition of turning the text over and over to see what meaning it holds for us. We search for hidden meaning, or create allegory to explain and illuminate the text. Or we may probe the way the black letters appear on the parchment. We imagine what might be hinted at in the “white fire” (the empty space) between the letters. And we source answers in the interpretations of sages who have lived in each generation of Jews. Most of us do not imagine the Divine Ineffable One as a vengeful and angry God (though that is certainly the God we might encounter if we stop at a surface reading of this text).
A dear friend and rabbinic colleague* wrote to us today, while a number of my colleagues “conversed” via email about just this heart-hardening aspect of the week’s parsha. He could not be a Jew, let alone a rabbi, he offered, if the tenants of our religious perspective led him to be in relationship with an abusive divinity. He believes the essential qualities of the Divine are chesed/loving-kindness and rachamim/ compassion. Similarly, I often imagine the Divine Mystery through the mystical lens of the sefirot/ emanations of Divine Light in this world that balance essential sacred qualities like justice and compassion, accountability and kindness.
How then, do we explain the plain meaning of the words? My friend relies heavily on the intellectual and spiritual giant Maimonides/Rambam (12th century) as he suggests a way of viewing the “episodes in Torah that give me heartburn”:
[These are] stories that were given to us at a certain stage of our people’s religious development because that is what our ancestors could grasp. We now need to look for the ikar (the essence) of those stories — ignoring most, if not all, of the pshat — and then use that ikar to understand what Torah means for our days. Accordingly, the stories in this week’s parasha must be understood as teaching us how we can rely on the Divine to walk with us (even when we are quite fearful — like today) to confront those people and situations in our lives that are hard of heart.
It is easy to see the hardness in today’s world and to sink into a place of despair or anger with people (or, perhaps, with God). This angry place has never served me well and I am particularly aware of the toxicity of anger this week, so relieved of life’s toxins by my walks on the beach. So I am appreciative of my friend’s idea of situations as being “hard of heart.” Perhaps it is these heart-hardening situations that warp the values of some people, eroding the ability to choose an ethical path or pulling us off course into hardness. I am grateful for the company of friends and sages who whisper from across the ages as I read Torah. They are like a lovely melody that rides above the rhythm created by the surf at the beach and the dance of the tides.
I have been thinking about multi-generational conversation a great deal lately, even before visiting my elders. In the past two weeks, I have watch the latest transmission of generational rabbinic smicha (ordination through a laying on of hands at our backs) in the lineage of Jewish Renewal. And then, I spent the subsequent week with the generations that precede me (both living and dead). Simultaneously, we entered the book of Sh’mot (names), the second book of Torah. This part of Torah begins by recalling the names of the generation that entered Egypt and, now, in Parshat Bo, we are within the formative story of our People — the transition from enslavement to freedom.
Torah is a hefty part of the the fabric of Jewish life. I often imagine our lives as an enormous tapestry woven from the threads we select and those that select us. In this metaphor, I think of Torah as a significant part of the warp of the fabric — the strong cords stretched taut to welcome the weft of our life’s journey. We each decide what parts of Judaism resonate most deeply with each of us. Is it the weekly cycle of creativity and Shabbat? Do we focus on our holidays and seasonal cycles? Or is it prayer and poetry, songs and spirituality, food, language, and history, to name just a few parts of the tapestry. While some of us might not turn regularly to Torah, it is always there, undergirding our Jewish identity and calling to us to participate in the conversation of how to live in right relationship. This exchange of ideas that has unfolded from the scrolls across generations offers us a depiction of an ethical, meaningful, love-deepened and holy life. These vibrant conversations, across millennia, sages, and all who wish to engage, is also called “Torah” in the largest sense of the word.
So as I write to all of you in the cold winter places and with particular warmth and love to the folks stoking the home-fires in the Flathead, I send the blessings of the surf and the sand and the invitation to find within the stories of our people a conversation to have across the generations.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Jessica Shimberg
*Rabbi David Rachmiel Aladjem, my thoughtful and loving friend, whose heart is full of kindness, compassion and NO hardness.
