Shortness of Breath, Hardness of Hearing, & Va-era

I’m a new person!

I can finally legitimately call myself a rabbi.

But I have a hearing problem.

I’m getting better, but I’ve struggled my whole adult life to listen to my body.

No sooner had I gotten off the plane than I felt I needed to get “back to work,” make up for “lost time,” “catch up.”

But the fact is, I’ve been home almost a week, and I’m just starting to land now.

I had to catch myself on work while also remembering the vows I’d made to myself before leaving.

I remembered the mikvah (ritual bath) I went to in preparation for Smicha (ordination), the week prior to going away.

The tradition is to dunk your body three times.

With each dunk, I stated an intention (kavannah) for this new life I would entering as a first attempt to let the living waters wash these things away.

One of them was “rushing.”

Maybe the mikvah did something, because at least I remembered.

I remembered the shortness of breath with which I tend to live, especially when I’m embarking on something new.

And there’s always so much to do upon returning from a trip; house cleaning, food shopping, laundry (not to mention the mess left behind by plumbers after a backed-up sink—not my fault!).

I vowed to pay attention to my breath and my body—to “listen.”

And I landed, but I didn't crash the way I used to, getting so sick I couldn’t function for a week.

This week’s Torah portion begins with God speaking to Moses, introducing Himself again as the One who appeared (וָאֵרָ֗א/Va-era) to his forefathers, but who did not make Himself known as YHVH (Yod Hey Vov Hey).

But now He remembers His covenant with this people, He has heard the groans of suffering under bondage, He will take them to be His people, and now He will bring them out of this land and into the land He vowed to Moses’ forefathers.

But when Moses relayed this to the children of Israel, they would not listen, for they were קֹּ֣צֶר ר֔וּחַ/kotzer ruakh: short of breath, impatient of spirit, of anguished soul. (Ex. 6:9)

Their spirits are restricted.

When people are oppressed, they are breathless and unable to take in air deeply.

And they’re impatient.

And anguished.

This is true with illness as well.

In such a state, we are unable to listen.

Moses claims to be unable to speak, for he is of uncircumcised of lips עֲרַ֣ל שְׂפָתַ֔יִם/Aral s’fatayim.

This implies that there’s extra flesh around his lips.

Therefore, he explains, the Israelites will not listen (Ex. 6:30).

How can they listen to him? And how will Pharaoh?

It’s true that neither do.

What is it that prevents Moses himself from hearing God’s call, to the point where it makes God angry?

There is a famous legend of Moses as a three-year-old in Pharaoh’s palace. He takes his “grandfather’s” crown from his head and puts it on his own. Pharaoh’s advisors suggest killing Moses, for clearly this is a sign of future usurpation.

But the angel Gabriel comes to save the day; posing as an Egyptian sage, he proposes putting the child to a test; Moses is, after all, still a baby.

Two objects are placed before him, one of which is a burning coal.

The burning coal ends up in Moses’ mouth, his lips are burned, and scar tissue remains. (The Particulars of Rapture, Avivah Zornberg, p. 89-90)

And though he has no memory of it, the trauma of this experience leaves its mark.

Moses can not make himself heard. He is traumatized and can not speak.

The Israelites in their oppression cannot listen.

Pharaoh, in his belief that he is a demi-god, refuses or is unable to hear, despite many signs proving God’s existence; plague after plague fails to soften Pharaoh’s heart.

Yet, despite Moses’ protests, and God’s assignment of his brother Aaron as spokesperson for him, Moses does speak to Pharaoh—again and again, according to the text.

I don’t need to be a literal slave to live with shortness of breath, impatience or an anguished soul.

I don’t even need to be sick.

Moses’ speaking to Pharaoh, despite his impediment and despite the fear he must overcome to face his “grandfather,” is a signal that, despite our trauma, we must learn to make ourselves heard.

And despite our fear, we must learn to listen.

It’s natural. We have different levels of consciousness, as we know from psychology, and as Hassidic master, the Kedushat Levi knew as well.

We repress inner voices, traumas, and then we can not listen, hear, or even sometimes speak.

Sometimes we need others who will speak for us, and sometimes even listen for us. The S’fat Emet quotes from psalms, “Listen, my people, that I may speak (50:7),” which means, “Your listening will enable me to speak.” It is the listener who creates the act of speech. (Zornberg, p. 84)

God has made Himself known to Moses’ forefathers as El Shaddai, the nurturing one.

But he shows up here as YHVH, the ineffable, the one whose name cannot be pronounced or spoken.

We may not be able to name God, but we can have faith that God’s voice will come through us, and through those around us.

And like in a mikvah, with our intentions and vows to change our way of being, with our desire to wash away the obstacles that keep us from living fully, from breathing fully, from listening and hearing, we can continue the work of reaching below the surface to uncover deeper levels of consciousness.

Then we can truly free our spirits.

And slowly we can liberate ourselves and our people.

And say Amen.