From Bitterness and Darkness to Thanks, Dreams, and Light

Recently, I facilitated a group conversation at the senior center at the 92nd Street Y.

The focus was Thanksgiving, our approaches to life, and how we find gratitude among the difficulties—especially the challenges of aging.

One woman, in her bouncy way, said she was in perfect health at 87 years old (except she could lose ten pounds, she laughed), and had nothing but gratitude.

She told of how her family had lost everything in the Holocaust when she was a small girl. Their big beautiful home was bombed a week after they were displaced by the nazis. She grew up with nuns, a happy child, and eventually made it to the U.S.

What a life, she said, to be saved like that!

A miracle to celebrate! Indeed!

Then the discussion turned to death, and I witnessed a sort-of argument.

“I never think about death!” said one woman. “I’m just grateful to be alive!

A man who had been slumped in his chair the whole time suddenly perked up. “I think about death every day! I’m 92! How can I not? And it makes me grateful to be alive!”

They went back and forth for a minute until I stopped them; two very different approaches to life, tragedy, and loss. Both valid. Both work.

But the wider American culture likes to make more space for one approach than the other—the positive attitude, the positive vibes.

As Jews, we’re made fun of—we make fun of ourselves, too—for being kvetchers, for focusing on the negative.

But both approaches to life are all over our Torah as well—and most dramatically in Breishit, Genesis, with its very fraught characters and family relationships.

We have the Hollywood version (or the Netflix version, for an update). We love our stories of love at first sight (Isaac and Rebecca, Jacob and Rachel); the recognition of the person of your dreams from afar; alighting, or falling off a camel; a strong, handsome man rolling a stone off a well; a kiss at first meeting (was it consensual?); bursting into tears…

The feeling that everything is going to be alright now that true love has been found.

But then it’s not. 

Real life hits, and we’re reminded that we can’t escape our past or make our future perfect: betrayal, manipulation, domination, competition, revenge, resentment, loss of hope, bitterness, deep disappointment and hurt; narrowmindedness, lack of imagination–in blessing mind you! (Doesn’t Isaac have another blessing left in him even though he’s “given away” the first one?? Or what else is going on here beneath the surface?)

Doesn’t all this reflect where we are now with the world situation? (Our fraught elections, global wars, global warming, lack of hope, lack of imagination…)

We wish, and somehow think we should be able to, control the outcome. And we put all our hopes and dreams into one leader who we think will save us—from ourselves, from each other…

In Chayei Sarah, Eliezer, Abraham’s servant who’s sent to find a wife for Isaac, challenges God by making all kinds of conditions about the woman who will become Isaac’s wife–if she offers water immediately to the servant, then to his camels, etc. 

Moses Maimonides, the medieval Torah scholar, calls this a sin–to tell God, “This is how it has to be, God, according to my imagination.”

The same goes for Jacob, I would argue, in the dream scene at the beginning of Vayetze, this week’s Torah portion. In the dream, Jacob sees a stairway leading to heaven with angels going up and down, and God is standing next to him, making promises of protection, of staying with him, and of inheritance.  

Jacob wakes up, declares the surprise and awesomeness that God is there, and sets up a pillar to anoint this holy place—because “God is in this place, and I did not know it.”

But then Jacob does something curious, in my mind. 

He makes another declaration, but this time with a stipulation for God: “If God remains with me, if He protects me on this journey, if He gives me food and clothing, if I return home safely, then the Lord shall be my God.” 

I think that’s pretty gutsy (though it’s not the first or last time biblical characters are gutsy with God). 

We, also, might be tempted to challenge God in this way, by making stipulations for our faith.

Why the evil in the world? Why senseless killing and wars? Why a government where profit trumps taking care of the climate, healthcare, education…?

So, yes, there’s all the darkness in Torah as we see it reflected in our lives and times.

We are tempted to become complacent and give up. Because, where is God? Where is the light?

But then Torah tells us of leaving home, of taking chances, of adventure—despite the unknown, despite the fear.

And the angels appear.

And God appears.

There’s trust and faith.

There are dreams.

This past Sunday we came out of Cheshvan, the bitter month (and it was so bitter for so many), to a new month, Kislev, the darkest month, but also the month of light and miracles.

Jewish mysticism teaches that with the creation of the world, as described in Torah, which came out of chaos, the tohu vavohu, is like a garb that covers, or hides, the great light that is God.

That God’s glory fills the whole world, but that the light is trapped, and it is our job to release the Holiness, through our actions.

So, what light can we bring in a time of so much darkness, deception, and uncertainty?

Whether your way is to kvetch or focus more on the positive, may all of it lead to action that can makes miracles happen.

May we be grateful for all we have and all we’ve had in our lives, and see miracles in places where it may not seem logical to see them.

May we expand our imaginations to dreams of a future that's hard to imagine in this moment, and bring blessing into the world beyond where we thought our imaginations could go.

Finally, may we wake up from the dream we are in and realize that the Holy is in this place and we did not know it—and that the power lies within each and all of us, individually and collectively, to save ourselves and each other.

And say Amen.

Shabbat Shalom.