When I was 19 years old, I moved to the United States on my own. At the time, I mostly just felt super-excited about this new adventure, moving to New York City, straight into Manhattan, and attending two colleges at the same time, List College, the undergraduate program at the Jewish Theological Seminary, and Columbia University. It was just the most fabulous, wondrous, exhilarating experience I could ever have imagined. I arrived a week early, with just my mom accompanying me, and she helped me set up my dorm room and get myself as ready as possible for this thoroughly overwhelming new stage of my life. It was only on the initial day of orientation, when she had to get back on a plane for Sweden, that I for the first time realized I was all alone. I watched her taxi leave the corner of 120th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, and I cried.
Years later, I looked back at that time, and I frankly marveled at how I made it all work. I was 19 years old, my entire family was on another continent, and I had never studied in the United States before, let alone at an Ivy League college like Columbia, and nothing I had ever experienced before could prepare me for life in New York City in the late 1990s. I never again felt that level of insecurity and uncertainty about the future, as I did at that moment. I often wondered, later in life, if that was an isolated incident or if I could ever take such a massive leap of faith and self-reliance again.
One of the things I recall from that first year was learning all about the institutions I was attending. As I walked through the then massive iron gates of JTS, I looked up at the emblem of the institution and I was confused. Underneath a picture of what was clearly a tree or a shrub of some sort, were three words in Hebrew, והסנה איננו אוכל, “And the bush was not consumed.” It comes from the Book of Exodus, chapter 3, verse 2, referring to the moment when Moses, tending the flock of his father-in-law, Jethro, looked up into the mountains and saw a bush on fire, and yet… it was not being engulfed in the flame or turned to ash.
Now why on earth would an academic institution make that their tagline???
It just seemed to me like an odd moment to capture. Not God actually speaking to Moses from the bush, not Moses removing his sandals on holy ground, and not God demonstrating miracles to Moses which he could later use to convince the Israelites and Pharaoh that he was indeed an emissary of God on a holy mission. Just, “the bush kept burning…” Riveting stuff. However, over the years I’ve found myself returning to this phrase numerous times, and each time I have developed a new and evolving understanding of it. But rather than give you my perspective right now, I’d like to first share with you a quote from Rabbi Toba Spitzer’s book, “God is Here,” the one I’ve been quoting and referencing throughout these High Holiday sermons. The book is all about trying to develop new relationships with God, and preferably ones that don’t require us to imagine God as a Big Person. She uses lots of textual examples from our Jewish Bible to show that our ancestors likened God to water, a cloud, a rock, and several others. Her book includes a chapter on God seen through the metaphor of fire, in which she brings up this very moment from Exodus.
Spitzer talks about teaching this quote to a group of social justice activists, and asking them why God appears to Moses in this particular way. That’s such a great question. Why not thunder and lightning? Why not a massive talking animal? Or a mysterious, angel-like human figure?? Why an inextinguishable shrub? One participant responded: “Because to take this [work] on, you have to have a fire burning within, an anger about injustice, a passion for the work of liberation. But that fire can overwhelm and consume you.” That answer really resonated with me. I think about my own life and my rabbinic work, and the things in life that make me passionate and excited, and I totally agree with this observation. You need something to kindle that light inside you. A FUSE, of sorts. And you need to figure out how to keep it lit and thriving, or the work can become burdensome and loathsome, and you yourself can become jaded and disillusioned. There’s a reason why losing our energy and our excitement is often called “burnout” or “flaming out.” If the fire inside is extinguished, it’s hard to find your enthusiasm once again.
On the other hand, if you let that fire burn uncontrollably, your passion can turn into obsession, vitriol, and even violence, and it can consume you and everyone around you. It can destroy everything you’ve worked for. That’s pretty daunting, isn’t it? How do you find that balance? Or, as Rabbi Spitzer writes in her book, “While almost anything can be dangerous in excess, the distance between warming your hands by a fire and singeing your fingers is a matter of inches.” We have to guard and keep that flame, while also respecting how thin that line really can be.
Fire is such a particularly good metaphor in this instance. Think about how absolutely vital it is to human survival. So much so, that we often talk about humans harnessing the power of fire as the beginning of civilization! Many of our foods, even today, could be terribly harmful to us if not boiled, cooked, or roasted first. Even water is often not safe to drink until boiled. As mammals without fur, fire was of course vital to prehistoric humans for heat. And without night vision, torches were essential for navigating treacherous environments. At the same time, despite how vital fire may be, there’s also no question how dangerous and life-threatening it can become as well. Especially when we don’t respect it.
Our internal self-preservation and survival instinct might kick into gear here, and caution us that if something is THAT dangerous, we should avoid it altogether. Why even risk it? Well, I return then to the rabbinic quote I’ve been using throughout this series as well, from the Ethics of Our Ancestors, Pirkei Avot, where Rabbi Tarfon reminds us that “we are not required to complete the task, but neither are we free to desist from it.” This is a slightly different reframing, but I still feel his words apply. I hear Rabbi Tarfon reminding us that just because something is scary, concerning, and potentially even dangerous, doesn’t mean we should just give up without trying. Moving to New York City on my own at 19 was pretty terrifying, but I wouldn’t change that journey for anything in the world. In life, you cannot simply desist from walking the paths that are hard.
I often find myself thinking about this concept of taking on scary things even when they’re dangerous, when it comes to parenting. We so desperately want to protect our children from harm, difficulty, pain, and disappointment… and yet, those experiences ARE vital for learning how to be resilient. That doesn’t mean we actively put our kids in harm’s way, but again, it’s hard to find the perfect balance between on the one hand trying to protect them, warn them, and make decisions that we tell ourselves are “for their own good,” while on the other hand, needing to let them explore and discover the world on their own. Our pediatrician once told me, little black and blue marks on kids’ legs and scuffed knees are the sign of a healthy child learning how to navigate the world as well as their own body.
Fire is also an excellent metaphor for emotions, specifically anger. Even in English, our descriptions of getting angry often revolve around feeling our “blood boiling” or being “fuming mad.” But then, society also cautions us, anger is bad. It’s destructive. It can hurt people. And it would be better to let our anger pass, calm down, and then make level-headed decisions. In my pastoral work, I see so many adults who don’t know what to do with their anger. Some retreat into silence, others may start to shake with anger, while yet others may turn to one substance or another to try and force their blood pressure to drop back down. They’re all struggling with this notion that anger is bad. It can be a destructive, fiery blaze that can injure or kill. We must stop it at all costs.
Just look around in society or in the news; we see constant examples of people having no idea how to handle their so-called negative emotions of anger, frustration, disappointment, fear, shame, and guilt. Maybe they get up on a stage and slap someone on national television for saying something they didn’t like. Or they attack authority figures, doctors, and epidemiologists who don’t give them the answers they want. They start wars to annex territory that doesn’t belong to them, dragging entire nations down with them in the process. Or perhaps they join a riot at the seat of their country’s democracy because they didn’t agree with the results of an election.
As a parent, I see the need from the very earliest moments of child development for this kind of intervention… especially because we see so many adults - including world leaders - who have no clue what to do when their emotions are boiling over or about to explode like a powder keg. All of us, from children to grownups, need better strategies for handling negative emotions. I firmly believe that part of that begins by not thinking of them as wholly negative.
Throughout the Tanach, there are images of God being angry… with some seriously damaging repercussions. In many of those instances, God is described as an “אש אוכלה - an all-consuming fire.” In Leviticus, God’s anger blazes forth against two of Aaron’s sons, when they offer an unsanctioned sacrifice. In the Book of Numbers, God’s flames return for the followers of Korach, rebelling against Moses. And in the Books of Kings, God torches the 400 priests of Ba’al, who challenge the prophet Elijah to a contest of sacrifices. Fire is scary; God’s fire is terrifying.
At the same time, the Bible also depicts God’s fire as a force for good, protection, and connection as well. The Bible doesn’t view it as inherently negative, and invites us to be in relationship with its positive attributes as well. It is also the pillar of fire in Exodus that protects the Israelites from the oncoming Egyptian hordes by the Sea of Reeds. In Leviticus, fire was an absolutely essential component of how our ancient ancestors connected with God. They didn’t have prayer books or Torah scrolls; only sacrifices. Rabbi Spitzer writes, “the flames on the altar were both a reminder of God as Fire and a means of connecting to the divine.” I imagine that the Israelites, standing there watching the flames and smoke of their offering ascend into heaven, surely felt that God, who otherwise seemed so distant up above, would hear their prayers.
It is true that the Bible demonstrates how dangerous fire and anger can be… but it also shows how life-giving and protecting it can be, and we need to emulate that ability to keep both types of fire in balance. In general, we need more positive associations with these complex emotions that we otherwise just dismiss as “negative” and “harmful.” The Bible offers many ways to reframe them, yet so often we still do our best to just try and not feel angry or upset. Yet still I maintain, anger can be healing. It can even be transformative.
Rabbi Spitzer introduces a fascinating concept in her chapter on Holy Fire, that of our ancient ancestors viewing God through the practice of metallurgy. She refers to something called “Furnace Remelting,” where a corroded copper object would be completely melted down in the glowing fire of a furnace, so that it could be made into an entirely new object. She quotes a scholar from Ben Gurion University, Nissin Amzallag, talking about how the Israelites would have seen the power of God’s fire as being creative, renewing, and positive, saying: “it was conceived [by the Israelites] as a wonder leading to a complete rejuvenation of creation through a massive destruction of shape.” When we are thoroughly broken down, it is also an opportunity to rebuild something completely new… and potentially amazing. Just like the myth of the phoenix, a bird that explodes into flames, yet is then born again from the ashes.
I want us to stay with this vision of the transformational power of fire for a bit. Let’s think again about our own emotions, the ones we sometimes have so much trouble controlling when they start to boil over. It is true, if we find ways to fully express those emotions, and not always try and tamp them down, or hope they’ll just pass, or medicate them away, it may indeed create a massive blaze - that is a risk - but potentially one that is not only healing, but can be completely revolutionizing. Like furnace remelting, it could lead to something entirely new and fresh and liberating… but first we’ve got to walk through that fire.
In many ways, I look back on my experience of moving to New York for college as a ‘remelting’ experience. It was tough, it was challenging, and it definitely wasn’t easy. But going through a major life change like that and coming out stronger on the other side really set me on a new path for the rest of my life.
It isn’t just my experience either. When I have talked to people who have walked their own challenging, sometimes painful, paths - surviving substance abuse, illnesses, or accidents - they will certainly readily admit that it was an excruciating process. A genuine trial by fire. And yet, without using this exact language, they all say that it was a ‘remelting’ experience too. They went into that blaze - for as long as it was necessary - and they came out as a reformed, stronger, glowing version of themselves.
When I think of this metaphor for God, it isn’t so much that I picture God as a divine blaze, like some exciting x-men hero in a flame-retardant suit. Rather, I envision this external force that can come in and reshape us, and also, at the same time, a powerful energy that can come from inside us, that can lead us to achieve extraordinary things. Both from outside and from within ourselves; that is where we may find God… or perhaps just godliness.
One of the fire images that makes its way into the modern synagogue is the Ner Tamid, the Eternal Light. Every synagogue has one, and for some reason it seems to be common knowledge among all Hebrew School students and congregants that the Eternal Light is NEVER supposed to be turned off. That, and never drop a Torah scroll; those seem to be the essential, synagogue 101 facts that everyone knows. The Ner Tamid is meant to remind us of the fire on the altar in the Ancient Temple in Jerusalem, which also was expected to remain lit constantly. Priests would keep watch all night long, to make sure it stayed, you know, eternal. It may also have served as a reminder of that moment of God approaching Moses, in a fiery bush that nevertheless was not consumed, which changed the course of Jewish history forever.
At the same time, it was also a symbol of the perpetual Divine presence. Just as the fire would always be there, so would God’s Presence. But in her book, Rabbi Spitzer adds another crucial dimension as well. She writes, “the fire perpetually burning on the altar is a reminder that the metaphorical flame in the human heart never actually goes out. We just need to find it, and tend it, in order for that inner blaze to burn true.” Which leads me very nicely back to my High Holiday theme for this year, which is the need to aspire in our lives.
So often we just go through the day to day, running on autopilot and not living with intentionality. But it’s there, isn’t it? Somewhere deep inside, there is an ember of a flame that’s just waiting to be nurtured, cultivated, and brought back up to a blaze? We just have to strive, again and again, to find it and tend to it. For some people, it might be a desire to participate in Tikkun Olam, either working for a social justice cause or addressing the global environmental crisis. Or perhaps running for political office. For others, it may be a personal passion that just got set aside long ago; maybe playing an instrument, doing something that gets your heart pumping, or perhaps even taking your life in a new direction. Can it be scary? Of course. But when can we justifiably say that something is *too* scary, and when have we just never challenged ourselves to take the leap and confront our fears head on??
Again, I return to that tagline under the JTS symbol; והסנה איננו אוכל - the bush kept burning and burning, but it did not go out. Even when we feel overwhelmed and intimidated, somewhere deep down, we may feel that the Eternal Light inside us continues to smolder. It will not go out. Yom Kippur is the perfect time to go search inside yourselves for just such a flame. On this day, we set aside our material needs and the sustenance of our bodies, and instead focus on finding nourishment for our souls. Is it an easy search? No, of course not. But it’s worth the struggle, and it’s worth spending your time striving to find it. How can you nourish your soul? What do you need at this time that you aren’t getting, and can you search inside for an eternal light that is waiting for you to care for it and really reignite it?
When I left my home in Stockholm in 1999, I was leaving behind community, stability, comfort, and the life I had always known. I didn’t quite set it all on fire, but it did feel a bit like burning bridges behind me. I certainly felt like I was stepping off a cliff, taking a leap of faith and hoping things would work out. I always wondered if I’d need to do that again, and what would happen if I found myself staring off into the wilderness of the unknown; like Moses, wandering along with his sheep, when he looked up and saw that indestructible bush.
And now, another moment for me is almost here. Another leap of faith, another scary moment of wondering if I do burn up, will I get to start over, like the phoenix rising from the ashes? I guess that remains to be seen. But I still return, again and again, to the importance of facing your fears. Just because something is scary, it doesn’t mean you need to run the other way. Especially because life will put obstacles and challenges in your path over and over again. So many people in this room have dealt with grief, and/or pain, and/or illness, and many other unfortunate circumstances that you wished you never had to deal with. But two things remain true: You cannot change the past. Wish all you like, you cannot magically undo things once they’ve occurred. And second, if you can stay with that experience, be present to it, and really feel the emotions of that painful time, it can become a source of strength and growth. It can become a “furnace remelting” moment, and give you new tools for dealing with whatever *else* life has in store for you.
So as I finish this sermon, and thus my final High Holiday sermon series, I pray for all of us to learn and grow from the pain of this moment. Yes, it can feel like burning, searing anguish, but it is only the end of one stage in all our lives and in the life of this community, and can lead to the rebirth of another phoenix experience on the other end. Rather than a consuming fire, it can instead be a Ner Tamid, a perpetual flame that just needs new kindling and firewood, but ultimately it is the same fire that keeps going.
Standing here, I find my attention back at that image of the Burning Bush. That moment of realizing it wasn’t being consumed was Moses’ first realization of God’s Presence and his own destiny taking him in an entirely new direction. It was a terrifying moment, to be sure, but I also imagine that Moses realized the bush continuing to burn and not being destroyed meant it wasn’t something to fear. It was a symbol of God’s care and concern, a burning desire to stay in relationship with Moses and the Jewish People. I hope that even as I end my tenure here as the Rabbi of Ohev Shalom, that our relationship will continue to burn, and our connection will not end.
At this point, I set aside my sermon and spoke without prepared remarks. In essence, I thanked the congregation for these magical 13 1/2 years, and told them - and that includes you, dear readers, as well - what a fabulous community this is. It will be very, very hard to say goodbye. Thank you for everything. Shanah Tovah!
That was my blog post from a few weeks ago. This week, I would like to explore the other side of the same issue; the person refusing to accept the feedback. What if we're not the person trying to make a "friendly" observation; what if we're the one being observed? We need to ask ourselves: Am I willing to be open to comments, even if they're painful and might require serious introspection and maybe even change? In our current Torah portion, we see that even Moses - one of our greatest leaders - struggles with this very question.
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The rabbis of the Talmud ask and answer an important question: "Who is wise? One who learns from all people" (Pirkei Avot, 4:1). Note that it says, "from all people." It's easy to learn from teachers, scholars, even an occasional rabbi. It's harder to learn from someone who is offering rebuke; though perhaps there is all the more to learn from that person. If/when you are
