God Willing (Ha’azinu)
What would it be like, every single time we made a plan, to acknowledge that it might not come to pass?
To say, “God willing,” after every expectation?
For something as small as meeting someone for pizza?
Or as big as a life plan?
To acknowledge that we have no control over our lives—or the future?
That things we thought would continue—have actually come to an end.
And things we thought should end, are actually continuing.
We are constantly experiencing endings and new beginnings.
It can be no other way.
Here we are, in the middle of the Yamim Nora’im—the Days of Awe.
These are days of opening to deep reflection.
For me, this year has been the first time attending full-on services indoors, in a very full, large, sanctuary, in three years—since the pandemic began.
I have still had some mourning to do as I let go of the past—
—of what I thought things would look like, be like, the things that would have come to pass for me by this point.
Through this time, I’ve reached a new level of acceptance of a different kind of future.
Maybe better said: of a different kind of present than I’d imagined.
But that’s kind of true for all of us, isn’t it?
This Shabbat we come to the end of the Torah.
In the last paragraph of this Parsha, Moses is told once again what a disappointment he’s been to God.
For there was a moment—one small moment—when he showed a lack of faith.
For this, he will only see the Promised Land from afar—and then he dies.
This is not what Moses dreamed for himself.
After forty years of yearning, this is not the “present” he’d imagined for himself.
But before he dies, Moses recites a poem given to him by God for the people to hear.
Ha-azinu—give ear—oh, people!
And then he launches into a poem that is made up of God’s last warnings.
As we launch into Yom Kippur, a day full of God’s warnings and our prayers that these warnings not come to be, we have much listening to do, much quieting of all the chatter in our heads, of the plans we are constantly making.
We rehearse our deaths, imagining a world in which we might actually die—where the worst we can imagine happens.
All during this past week, the following prayer, which we recite or sing on Yom Kippur evening, has haunted me:
Act for Your Sake—L’ma’ancha—O Maker, not for ours.
See—behold our position—standing before You,
Impoverished and empty.
The soul is Yours and the body is Your work,
Have compassion on Your work,
Over the soul that is Yours.
לְמַעַנְךָ אֶלקֵינוּ עֲשֵׂה וְלא לָנוּ,
רְאֵה עֲמִידָתֵנוּ, דַּלִּים וְרֵקִים
הַנְּשָׁמָה לָךְ וְהַגּוּף פָּעֳלָךְ
חוּסָה עַל עֲמָלָךְ הַנְּשָׁמָה לָךְ.
On Yom Kippur, we come before the Mystery of the Universe, our Maker, empty, impoverished, begging for our lives.
Lives that are on borrowed time.
As we pray, we are reminded that we must do the best we can with this body and this soul—these things that don’t actually belong to us.
Thus it makes sense to “give ear” to the “still, small voice,” as our High Holiday liturgy says.
As we launch into a new year of unknowns, I personally have given ear to a still, small voice inside of me that has been telling me, “It’s time, after three full years of writing weekly, for a change.”
The plan is to transition into writing monthly, in sync with the Hebrew months.
I don’t really know where this will take me, but I know that I am opening up and making time and space for other things as they come along.
In a couple of weeks, I will have returned (God willing) from co-officiating at two interfaith weddings—the ones I’ve been working towards and planning for over the past months.
And then, you will hear how they went.
My hope and prayer is that we all give ear to the still, small voice, and that we present ourselves as empty, opening ourselves to be filled with awe as we step into a new year.
L’Shanah Tova U’m’tukah.
May it be a good year, and a sweet year.
May we have faith in ourselves, in humanity, and the future.
Keyn y’hi ratzon—May it be so.
And say Amen.
