Uncomfortably Walking up the Slopes to Sinai
Let’s for a moment take the Revelation at Sinai literally. Notice I am not saying “seriously” here as I am already dead serious about the Sinaitic revelation. This is one of the greatest falsehoods that is leveled at progressive Judaism—that we do not “believe” in the revelation at Sinai. Although I can only speak for myself as a rabbi, I cannot imagine that I will be alone among my colleagues in expressing my full acceptance of Sinai as one of the great metaphors of our tradition. Sinai is “true”—absolutely and completely—on a symbolic level. And before a charge of sophistry is leveled, the hermeneutic model that Torah should be equally looked at literally, metaphorically, allegorically, and mystically far predates the modern denominations of Judaism. Yet for some reason in the minds of many this one narrative of our tradition must speak only of a literal voice, and if I step into the gates of metaphor to interpret the story, I and all of our progressive cousins must somehow be treyf. Enough.
But for just a moment, let us look from within the eyes of a literal human standing at the foot of a literal Sinai.
We celebrate this moment in our narrative with our festival of Shavuot. For that tiny percentage of us that are not lactose intolerant, this is a holiday of great joy. Cheesecake. Need I say more? But the joy is predicated on the connection between celebration and revelation. We officially agreed to become am kodesh, a holy people. Ignoring that fact that this somehow also meant religiously giving up our right to eat a BLT, the mere act of belonging—of knowing our place—is worthy of joy. Just google it. MyJewishLearning sums up its Shavuot article by saying: “Shavuot is a day of great joy, marking the end of the sadness (the counting of the omer) and commemorating the joy of receiving Torah.” That is two times the use of “joy” in a single sentence. Hallelujah. It must be true.
Except if I am not Moses (who is readying himself to step on the ladder into history), and I am just a Plony son of Plony from the tribe of Dan standing at the back of a multitude trying to hear the words of a man I barely know while the sand is encrusting my eyes, grit grinding away at the corners of my mouth while the wind whips at my cloak, I am not joyful. I am uncomfortable.
Not long ago I had a roof over my head at night. Certainly, my day job left a lot to be desired, but one of the great gifts evolution has given us is the forgetting of physical pain and the psychological ability to look at the past through a lens of nostalgia. Freedom seemed like a good idea, but when the bounds of predictability are shattered and we enter into the unknown, those chains begin to lose their negative connotations. As the old truth written down by Feng Medong in the 17th century claims: “Better to be a dog in times of tranquility than a human in times of chaos.” But the frogs and locusts and pestilence were unpleasant, not to mention that hail, along with that terrifying night where runners came by with the baffling command that we splash blood on our doorways. And that very night, wondering at those shouts and cries throughout the city. And then the sudden packing—no you don’t have enough time to bring your poetry! Papyrus takes up too much space and you need that to carry water, what little food we have, and your little sister when she stumbles from exhaustion. Then there was the mud of the sea and the great betrayal! That Moses fellow—well actually it was his brother speaking on his behalf—told us that Pharaoh has let us go but there Pharoah is with his entire army—chariots and bronze spears ready to fly through the air. The running and stink of nervous sweat. The cries that could not be suppressed and the heroes stopping to help those that had fallen—making sure none would be trampled. Sure, we witnessed things we could not explain – miracles even. But now I am hungry and thirsty and know not what tomorrow brings and now there is lighting and thunder forming above this mountain and I am supposed to say I am going to agree to a whole bunch of new laws, sight unseen? Sure, why not? Everyone else is shouting yes.
But I am quite uncomfortable, and revelation suddenly doesn’t appear as shiny as it once did. Interestingly enough, it seems as though this is actually the underlying archetype of our Jewish narrative: discomfort.
Abraham is commanded to leave his family and all that he knows. From thousands of years distant and through the eyes of children learning “Abraham” as a heroic name we miss out on the discomfort. If we think of the last hundred years and examples more near to us in time of our own Lech Lecha moments of leaving our land and our family, the examples are seldom ones of joy. Abraham may be our version of a hero, but leaving home and family are seldom by choice and usually come as a result of war, famine, environmental disaster, or persecution. Abraham’s Lech Lecha moment may stand in our tradition as a heroic one, but the human beneath the narrative did not feel heroic. Leaving hurts like hell.
Joseph qualifies as a hero but look what it took him to get to his position of authority. Kind David fathered the messianic dynasty, but look what he endured, hounded and hunted by a crazed Saul, in order to sit on the throne. The Torah is a masterpiece, but it took a destroyed temple and three generations of forced diaspora to create the right conditions for its final redaction, and the Talmud perhaps an even greater masterpiece that was necessitated by the destruction of a second temple and the loss of half the world’s Jewish population in the Roman Jewish Wars.
Our history is filled with glorious deeds and elevated thoughts. We have argued our way through to an underlying ethic that is as close to universal as it gets, and our tiny percentage of the world population continues to find ways to have profound influence. It may indeed appear miraculous, but it has never really been comfortable getting there. One might even argue that our individual or collective moments of greatest discomfort have always precipitated our greatest leaps forward.
And so, I leave my and our own Sinai with much the same words I came in with—I was not really here to make us feel comfortable.
At the time I first said this at this Sinai, the way this statement was received made me quickly backpedal. I was a stranger in a strange land, a rabbi in a new country with its own unique history and thoughts and traditions, and this catchphrase that had opened up so many conversations in the past fell flat like an ill-conceived marketing slogan. Several sermons and articles were crafted to try to put the phrase into perspective. I know what I meant, but I tried to add enough local vernacular to the catchphrase to allow the meaning to manifest. At the time I hadn’t been here long enough to understand why it could not be heard, or at least heard from me, so I gave up and moved on.
Yet here we are again on the slopes of a new Sinai. By the time this is published I will be on my way to a new land, remembering in the tradition of Abraham’s Lech Lecha and the Exodus that leaving any home is seldom easy or pleasant. At the same time, you all will be standing at the foot of a different Sinai waiting to see what the future holds in the revelation of a future rabbi not to mention still wrestling with the questions of how or when this Sinai opens again. None of this is pleasant, and it is certainly uncomfortable for all.
Which I guess means that this is all very Jewish.
As my final admonition and encouragement, I would like to withdraw my apology regarding my statement, “I have not come to make you feel comfortable.” Hopefully, what I have written above has finally done the job of explaining what I meant—there is no moment of revelation, advancement, or enlightenment that does not first involve discomfort. When we are comfortable, we do not question ourselves or our actions, only those people that dare pierce and threaten our comfort. Yet when out of our comfort zones at our best we ask the harder questions, seek to learn new skills and ideas, and set the stage for elevating ourselves and each other to a higher possibilities. For those of you that came to me in those early days and asked what I meant when I said these words, thank you. For those of you that assumed the worst, gave no benefit of the doubt, never asked, but used the words as a rallying cry in the parking lot, I hope that you are able to hear the words of discomfort that come from your next rabbi with much greater openness, because through those words the Eternal will have the greatest possibility to manifest. We do not evolve when we are comfortable, and the nature of spirituality is that we all must evolve.
That is different than understanding that there are times that we must provide comfort—that is one of our most critical obligations as Jews and as humans. But the thing is, when I wish for you to feel discomfort, I am not talking about the mitzvah of comforting. I mean this as a blessing, separate and distinct. I mean, may we question ourselves. May we be willing to change. May we be able to look around us and see all the diversity and understand that what “works” for us will not work for others—that a healthy community is one that is constantly adjusting to the changing world and community demographics. And just like standing at the foot of Sinai, perhaps I do have sand in my eyes and grit at the corners of my mouth, but by being willing (even dragged across the muddy bottom of the Sea of Reeds with Pharoah’s army following) to stand there at all means that what comes next is nothing less than the very future of our people. Discomfort is one of the universal components required before the greater can come.
The future, obviously, is not known for any of us. But that may be the best news we could ever have, for from that reality and only that reality do we have the possibility of growth and elevation. So, may we be comforted from our present discomfort, and through this may we all be blessed.
