Departing Eden to Return
Shabbat Shuva D'rash 5763
Barrett Brick
Copyright ©2002
"Shuva Yisrael ad Ad-nai Elohecha!" "Return, O Israel, to Ad-nai your G-d!" It is from this opening line of the special haftora portion for this Shabbat, from the prophet Hosea, that the day takes its name: Shabbat Shuva, the Sabbath of Return.
What is this t'shuva, this return, that is so great that with t'fila, prayer, and tz'daka, righteous deeds, it averts the severity of the decree that was written for us last week on Rosh Hashana, and which will be sealed in a couple of days on Yom Kippur? What is it that is so great that it transforms the baser feelings to the most noble?
Is it simply a turning away from something out of concern for our future, simply a matter of reward and punishment?
In fact, we read something of this earlier this evening, in the middle paragraph of the Sh'ma. Love G-d, keep and fulfill G-d's mitzvot, bind these upon us, teach them to generations to come, and the rains will nourish the land and we will remain on it. Turn from G-d's ways, and the heavens will close and the land will dry out.
A simple system of reward and punishment, yes. Listen to G-d, we'll get material goods, and we'll have a good life. Turn away, and we won't. Well, people are simply human, and, for some, it takes a material cost/benefit analysis to determine whether to keep to the mitzvot. And it is useful to be reminded of the importance of individual responsibility, and that choices and actions have consequences. Still, our tradition consistently appeals to our higher natures, asking us to keep G-d's ways out of love for G-d. As Maimonides wrote, the promises of reward and punishment may be necessary for some, but they are only a means to a higher end.
So what is it toward which we should be turning? Certainly it has to be more than the mere outward indicia of Jewish life, especially as perceived in this modern age. An enjoyment, for example, of ruggelach and apples and honey, of klezmer music and horas, of Isaac Bashevis Singer and Nadine Gordimer are all well and good. But we are called to at this time of turning and through the year is to something more: to a full Jewish life, not simply to Jewish culture.
Of course, it is difficult to turn to this at times, for various reasons. As Milton mentioned last Friday night, it can be due to having an image thrust at us of a G-d who spies on and torments young children. It can be due to discomfort with the stagnant interpretations of Judaism transmitted by rabbis of earlier days. It can be due to discomfort with some of Judaism's teachings themselves, which may seem to conflict with what we believe noble values should be. This I especially so in our modern age, when so many proclaim often and loudly that religious teachings are a relic of an old age of oppression and have nothing to say to us, or that all values are equal so choosing among them and judging is bad. But so long as we feel enough for Judaism that we are willing to confront and wrestle with its traditions, we are still demonstrating a love for Judaism and for G-d, calling them to live up to our hearts' noble aspirations - hearts, after all, that have come from Jewish lives. For the opposite of love, as we are taught, is not hate, but indifference. Indeed, indifference creates a barrier between us and G-d; every giving in to this indifference strengthens this barrier. If we are indifferent to the fullness of Jewish life, we become separated from our roots, and from G-d.
Sara Rigler, a writer and editor, writes of the cut flower phenomenon. Cut flowers, pretty as they appear, are doomed to die, she writes, because they are severed from their roots. Rigler tells the following story:
"During the decade and a half I lived in New England, my favorite hobby was horticulture. I particularly loved the arresting fragrance of gardenias; in early spring, I couldn't resist buying gardenia plants, laden with two or three beautiful white flowers and a dozen buds, usually offered for $3.95 at Woolworths. I would take my plant home, position it in a window with eastern exposure, water it copiously, and wait for the buds to open.
"After one glorious, fragrant week, the open flowers would turn yellow and dry up, and the buds, reacting to the dryness in my heated house, would turn brown at their necks. I would labor to rescue them, misting the plant with a green plastic spray bottle every time I passed, a dozen times a day. One at a time, the buds would fall off. I would be left with a plant with shiny green leaves. After about six weeks, the leaves would start to turn yellow. I would run to the nursery, buy iron granules, and scratch them desperately into the soil in the gardenia's pot.
"In three months, the plant would be dead. Every time.
"Not to be daunted, I invested in a small greenhouse, where the conditions would be optimum for growing gardenias. I also grew hibiscus and jasmine. I assiduously fed my plants with a solution of liquid fertilizer, meticulously regulated the temperature and humidity, and valiantly battled white fly and scale. Despite the gigantic expense of heating the greenhouse all through a snowy New England winter, I was proud of my yield: four or five hibiscus flowers a week and a couple dozen sprigs of jasmine in season. (The gardenias didn't bloom, but they didn't die either.)
"About five years into my greenhouse enterprise, I took my first trip to southern California. There, in Laguna Beach, I saw hibiscus hedges eight feet tall, with solid masses of large red and pink flowers, and sprawling banks of white and yellow jasmine. To add to my envy, no one was lavishing care or expense on them. They were flourishing on their own, in their own natural environment.
"To really flourish, Jewish culture needs its natural environment: authentic Jewish life."
The prophet Hosea says this in a related way in this day's haftora reading: they who return shall strike root as trees of Lebanon, their boughs shall spread out far. Their beauty shall be like the olive tree's, their fragrance like that of Lebanon. Those who sit in their shade shall be renewed and return.
Shabbat Shuva heightens our sense of G-d's nearness, making it that much more possible to turn, to break down the barriers that separate us from the path. All we need do is to start, taking one step at a time. As it is written in Pirke Avot, the Ethics of the Talmud: "Be swift towards a light mitzva, and flee from transgression; for mitzva leads to mitzva and transgression to transgression. For the reward of a mitzva is a mitzva, and the reward of a transgression is a transgression." Each performance of a mitzva, even the smallest, begins to set a pattern in which one continues to turn toward and peform mitvot. Just as a small correction to a spacecraft's path has a large cumulative effect across the extent of its orbit, so a small shift in our own paths can have a great effect across the trajectories of our lives. And that small shift can be triggered by seemingly small things. As Moses sings in the word's of this Shabbat's Torah portion, Ha'azinu:
"Give ear, O heavens, let me speak;
Let the earth hear the words I utter!
May my discourse come down as the rain,
My speech distill as the dew, Like showers on young growth,
Like droplets on the grass."
In comparing G-d's teachings to the soft rain and the morning dew, Moses gives us an important insight into the way we become aware of G-d's presence in the world. The morning dew appears very simply on a blade of grass. There is nothing very dramatic about its appearance: no thunder and lightning, no great eclipse, no fanfare, no voice out of a whirlwind. The dew is just there, its life-giving power manifest on the grass on which it rests. So, too, we can be aware of G-d's presence in the world, if we make the effort---
The man whispered, "G-d, speak to me," and a meadowlark sang. But the man did not hear. So the man yelled, "G-d speak to me!" And, the thunder rolled across the sky. But the man did not listen. The man looked around and said, "G-d let me see you." And a star shined brightly. But the man did not notice. And the man shouted, "G-d show me a miracle!" And a life was born. But the man did not know. So the man cried out in despair, "Touch me G-d, and let me know you are here!" Whereupon, G-d reached down and touched the man. But the man brushed the butterfly away and walked on.
Let us be sure that we don't miss out on a blessing in our lives because it doesn't appear in the way that we expect.
The beginning of our people's very story underscores this, in the Garden of Eden after the days of Creation. As Rabbi Shefa Gold explains a midrash, "Adam, realizing the magnitude of his sin in the Garden . . . sought to be reconciled with G-d. T'shuva in this case would mean re-establishing the intimacy and trust that existed between G-d and G-d's beloved creatures before the expulsion from Eden." But, as Rabbi Gold notes, t'shuva in this story does not mean a recreation of or return to innocence. That aspect of Eden was gone forever. "But a new relationship, one more mature since it had faced and overcome the moment of doubt and betrayal, was Adam's goal. It is this deeper faith, one that emerges from struggle with the self, that is the goal of t'shuva."
We can struggle with ourselves because we have free will.
It is true that this can be a challenging concept: that we have free will, that we are free to choose how to behave and act, and that these choices have consequences. But this is, as Maimonides tells us, the true view of the Torah, that it is G-d's will that we have free will. Indeed, according to Maimonides, whoever seeks to find support for contradicting this fact is committing suicide! Now, perhaps Maimonides in saying this was on one level simply attempting to confound his critics. But if we see G-d's love for us as that of a parent for a child, or of a partner for a partner, we can see that avoiding or denying the freedom of our will denies the divine spark of G-d's love within us. This is a love which is strong enough to risk giving the gift of freedom, to allow us to grow and develop as individuals in our own right, yet still members of a family, of our people. Or, perhaps, Maimonides was suggesting that to think that all is ordained by G-d leads us to think, especially looking back on last September, that G-d ordains evil acts, or simply does not care about us. Thus, we are led away from G-d, amounting to a kind of suicide. It is disheartening, and even scary, and a challenge to our faith in G-d, to know that people can choose to do evil. But this knowledge is in reality knowledge of the faith that G-d has in us: that we are trusted and loved enough, by an unending love, to be given free will. And the rewards of risking such a love are great, reflecting and magnifying the divine spark within each of us.
What we return to is not Eden. That place is gone forever, just as we cannot return to the world that existed little over a year ago. But we are given the opportunity, through t'shuva, to return to the environment that allows us to build more mature and better worlds, with deeper faith and understanding. As the Russian rocket scientist Konstantin Tsiolkovski once said, "Earth is the cradle of humanity, but one cannot live in the cradle forever." In this day when voyages not just of the imagination but also of reality take us beyond the once-seeming limited bounds of our own planet, we know that as maturing beings we cannot live in the cradle forever, whether that be an actual cradle, or a symbolic Eden, or the towns and lands of our birth. But if we keep our roots firmly planted in their natural environment of Jewish life, our t'shuva and our continued growth becomes natural and easy. Our roots remain firm as our boughs spread wide, and those who rest in their shade shall themselves be renewed and return.
Shabbat shalom . . . l'shana tova.
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