Tag: psalms

festivals · high holy days · sermon

Why won’t God answer my prayers?

levtaylor

Now and again, members of this community will say to me: “I’m hoping for sunshine this weekend. Can you put in a good word?” Or “You’ve got a direct line. Tell the One upstairs to sort these problems out.”

I have to say. Do you really think that if God was listening to me the world would look like this?

A pious Jew turns up every dawn to the Kotel, the Western Wall, in Jerusalem and prays there until sunset.

A journalist comes and asks her: “what do you pray for?”

She says: “I pray for love, peace, and understanding throughout the world.”

The journalist asks: “And how do you feel, praying for such righteous things at this holy site?”

The pious Jew answers: “Like I’m talking to a brick wall.”

The Kotel is really a relic from a religion that no longer exists. It is the remaining ruined wall of the ancient Temple religion.

To the ancients, that wall may really have felt like a gateway to God. But, for modern Jews, it’s just a wall, no closer to Heaven than anywhere else.

To the Israelites of Temple times, the priests may really have felt like divine messengers, holding the keys to connect with the spiritual realm.

But we got rid of all that, and replaced the Priests with rabbis, who are just ordinary people. At best.

We no longer have holy places or holy people. Instead, we have holy time.

This is the season when the gates of repentance open. From the start of Rosh Hashanah until the end of Yom Kippur, there is a gateway in which we may seek to become better versions of ourselves.

This doorway is called Yamim haNoraim: the Days of Awe. The final service of Yom Kippur is called neilah, which means closing. That’s when the gates of repentance shut.

We stand in the threshold, in the brief passage when those doors are open.

Each year, we pray that God hears us. In the special blessings of the new year, we ask that God remember us for good; give us blessings; and grant us a good life.

Each year, we pray to God. We pray for the sunshine and rain in their due season; for security and prosperity in our own lives; and for all evil to be kept away from us.

Does anyone else feel like God isn’t quite delivering?

Often, I feel like I pray, but God doesn’t answer.

If you have managed to hold onto your faith and believe that God is with you even through all the trials of life, I admire you.

I don’t find it so easy.

I can feel the presence of God, who is the Source of all justice. But I look at our world, and feel how unjust it is.

The Psalmist says: “open for me the gates of righteousness; that the just may enter in!”

But it feels like the gates of justice are sealed shut. Why is there so much in this world that seems so profoundly unfair?

When I’m stuck with a question like this, I turn to the Talmud. Those Babylonian rabbis of old always have some good answers. And I never agree with any of them.

Because the Talmud doesn’t tell you what to think, it tells you how to think. So, in the tractate of Talmud focused on blessings, Talmud gives a few possibilities.

Maybe I’m praying for the wrong things. Maybe God can’t do what I’m asking. Or maybe God can’t hear me.

And maybe, maybe, God is listening to me, and it’s me who isn’t listening to God.

So, let’s explore the options, as they’re set out in the Talmud.

Talmud says some prayers are pointless. If you ask God to change the past, you’re praying in vain. If you hear a scream on your street and you pray it’s not in your house, you’re praying in vain.

On one level, Talmud is just saying God doesn’t do time travel. But I think there’s a deeper meaning here. I think Talmud is saying: bad things will happen in the world, and you cannot stop them from happening to you.

We cannot go back and change the past because suffering is built into the human condition. There are things I pray for, like the eradication of all sickness, that God just can’t do.

Human beings may have been able to defeat many illnesses over the last two centuries, and medicine today is capable of remarkable things.

But so long as we are human, we will be mortal, we will get sick, and we will experience pain.

As long as there is suffering in the world, some of it will happen to me and the people I love. God won’t open the gates of Heaven to do favours for the favourites.

So, if I only pray for the right things, will they happen?

The Talmud’s answer is: still, no.

Rabbi Elazar teaches: Since the day the Temple was destroyed, an iron wall separates the Jews from God.

On the one hand, we might take that literally, and imagine that God was busy in people’s lives until year 70 of the Common Era, then lost interest when there were no more chicken sacrifices on the altar, and decided to leave us all to it.

If only we still had a stone structure in Jerusalem, we could take a baby goat to a priest, and all our problems would disappear!

But I doubt it. Even in the time of the Temple, the Prophets were very suspicious of the supposed claims of the Priests to do magic. The Talmud is the project of the rabbinic movement, which was sceptical of the Temple cult.

More likely, the Talmud is answering a question that reading the Torah poses. Why God isn’t helping.

God rescued Noah from the flood: why not us? God parted the sea for Moses: why not for us? God fed the Israelites with manna from Heaven: why not us?

These stories belong not to a historical past but to a mythic time. They happened at the same time that giants roamed in Canaan, donkeys spoke in Moab, and dragons were slain in Persia.

That fantasy time has to end somewhen. God clearly doesn’t do magic anymore.

But this explanation feels inadequate. If I’m praying for the right things, and God has the power to perform miracles, why don’t they happen?

Talmud has another answer, because: “Rabbi Elazar also said: Since the day the Temple was destroyed, the gates of prayer were locked.”

We may imagine ourselves outside a great castle, calling out to be allowed entry. But nobody can hear us.

I might pray all day every day, but nobody can hear. I might shout and scream for God to solve all the world’s problems. But no message is getting through.

It’s not that God doesn’t care. It’s not that God can’t do anything about it. It’s that, for some reason, God cannot hear what I’m asking for.

For Rabbi Elazar, that sad fact is baked into the universe. God is listening, but cannot hear.

I can make whatever demands I like, but they go nowhere.

But Rabbi Elazar offers us some comfort. He says: “Despite the fact that the gates of prayer are locked, the gates of tears were never sealed.”

All my demands from God, whatever I shout for, won’t be heard. But my tears will.

God may not hear my orders, but God will hear me when I cry.

In our haftarah, Hannah goes and stands in the Temple to pray for a child.

Hannah’s soul was bitterly afflicted, and she wept incessantly. She whispered in ways those around her could not understand. She was so distressed that, to the Priest who saw her, she looked drunk.

Abarbanel, a 15th Century Portuguese commentator, says that Hannah was filled with tears, to open the gates of tears, because they are never closed. Then God would join her in her sadness.

Now, we must imagine something new. So far, we have been putting out protests, petitions, and pleas. But God hasn’t heard any of them.

Now, instead of our demands, we offer tears. Consider how different this is. A request requires an answer. Action. Yes or no. And you can ask God for whatever you like, but you won’t get it.

Tears are different. When I cry, it comes from a place of real grief, sadness, and exhaustion.

I cry when all the bluster is gone and I’m stripped back to my most vulnerable self. I’m not telling God what to give me anymore. I’m just telling God I’ve got nothing left to give.

And God hears that.

The gates of tears are never closed. There are no locks, no doors, no iron walls, that can stop God hearing when we cry.

And then God cries too.

Tears can’t be answered with magic solutions. The only way to really answer a crying person is to hold them and sit with their pain. So that’s what God does.

God joins us in our sadness.

I cry to God that the people I love get sick and suffer. And God weeps back, because that hurts God too.

I cry to God that the world is a mess, filled with war, hatred, and environmental destruction. And God weeps back, because that hurts God too.

I cry to God about how the innocent die and the wicked succeed. And God weeps back, because that hurts God too.

I say to God: please, do all you can to make this world just a little more just. And God answers: please, you do all you can to make this world just a little more just.

This gate swings both ways. Open up the gates of justice in your world, so that I, the Eternal One, may enter into your space.

The gates of repentance have opened.

Now is the chance to channel our most justice-seeking selves. In these Days of Awe, we seek forgiveness. We resolve to abandon our worst habits and to cultivate our best traits. We swear we will become a force for righteousness.

But all year round, the gates of tears stay open.

God may not grant wishes like a genie, but God will always be a friend; there to share the pain.

So, on the days when I feel like God isn’t listening to me, I need to try and listen out for God.

I need to hear that I am not the only one crying. The whole world is crying. And God is crying with us.

In this season of repentance, may we all find the strength to be vulnerable, to cry when we need to, and to feel God’s presence with us through our pain.

Whatever you are facing, may God be with you.

Amen.

Rosh Hashanah morning 5787

festivals · sermon

But Ruth was a Moabite

levtaylor

In the Louvre, there is a towering stele, engraved with glyphs in an ancient language. Cast into the stone are the words purported to come from King Mesha of Moab. It tells of how the kingdom of Israel waged war against the Moabites and subjugated them.

He tells how King Omri decided to destroy the house of Moab forever. How he occupied land and oppressed the people. How the Israelites demanded tribute from the Moabites and forced them to send hundreds of men as captive slaves.

And our sources? Our sources agree. The Bible tells the same story. In the book of Kings, Mesha, king of Moab, is described as a sheep breeder who had to hand over 100,000 lambs and the wool of 100,000 rams. He is treated as a despised servant, mocked for his weakness at being conquered. Our Bible groats that the Moabites were utterly destroyed.

But. But Ruth was a Moabite.

Ruth came from the plains of Moab where there was famine and joined herself to Naomi’s household. She joined with them and was a model of love and kindness. She was strong and noble. Ruth is still the model of decency. And she was a Moabite.

These weeks, we turn to the book of Numbers. Almost the entirety of this chapter is a polemic against the Moabites. It tells of never ending war. It talks about how the Moabites feared the Israelites strength and number; how the Israelites went and crushed them. It triumphantly promises that a scepter shall rise out of Israel and smash the forehead of Moab. Death to Moab. Death to the Moabites.

But… Ruth was a Moabite. Ruth was a Moabite. Could she be included in these celebrations of ethnic cleansing? How could anyone do that to Ruth?

In the Psalms, God jokes that Moab is a washpot. The basin in which God’s feet are cleaned. Ezra laments in disgust that Israelites would ever marry Moabites. Numbers calls the Israelites who married Moabites harlots. Deuteronomy treats this intermarriage as a sin.

But Ruth was a Moabite. And Ruth married Boaz. And their story is the one we turn to when we want to understand true love. Their union is how we imagine all marriages should be. For them, marriage wasn’t a problem. It was a joy. Who could forbid such a thing?

When King David took power in Israel, he set out to conquer and destroy the Moabites. He trapped them in the valley and allowed nobody to leave. He split the Moabite camp in two with a line. On one side, he massacred them. He killed them without exception. On the other side, he enslaved them, and kept them as degraded servants.

But Ruth was a Moabite. And Ruth married Boaz. And they has children. And grand-children and great-grandchildren. And one of those descendants was David. Yes, King David, too, was a Moabite by ancestry. He was a product of one of those forbidden unions.

In so many places, the Bible speaks of destroying and degrading the Moabites. Only a few verses in one solitary book speak of Ruth as a Moabite, and position her as a source of love and the originator of the Israelite nation.

The Bible is not so much a book, but a library in discussion with itself. It is a compendium of different contradicting voices.

Somewhere, at some time, some voice thought it was important to say that Ruth was a Moabite. And she was a model of love and kindness. And she took better care of her family than anyone could. And she was the pinnacle of loyalty and devotion. And she was the grandmother of King David. And she was a Moabite.

You might wonder why anyone would bother. The entire Bible is a torrent of hatred against Moabites. Every word is oppositional. All the history speaks of war and conquest. Why would one lone author put their head above the parapet to suggest something otherwise? Why would it be worthwhile to say that Ruth was a Moabite?

But think about it. There are countless verses of contempt for Moabites, and only one that suggests they are worthy of love. And which one do we remember? Does anyone today feel any animosity towards the ancient tribe east of the Jordan? Does anyone still take pride in Israel’s long-gone military victories against its neighbours?

No. But people remember that Ruth was a Moabite.

Empires rise and empires fall. Nations come in and out of being. The names of kings and warriors are lost to the ages. But one loving word can last a thousand lifetimes.

The voices of hatred and jingoism are fleeting. They cannot be sustained. But the voice of love – the voice of humanity – that speaks out across centuries and spans generations. It lasts long after the malaise has subsided.

Ancient Israel was a great kingdom. It was able to conquer lands and bring neighbouring nations to their knees. It could compel people to erect stone monuments to their own misery. And the thought of it makes us, at best, uncomfortable.

But, now, all we take pride in is love. The love our people have had for their God. The love our leaders have had for their Torah. The love they have had for each other. They love they have had for strangers.

Gentle words. Small memorandums of compassion. Fleeting acts of kindness.

A verse. Ruth was a Moabite. Remember that, Ruth was one of them.

Shabbat shalom. Chag sameach.

psalms · theology

Sore lungs sing out of sync

levtaylor

By the rivers of Babylon, we sat down and there we wept as we remembered Zion. 

Why did we weep by those waterways? Some times are harder than others to find songs inside your lungs. Faced with a strange land and held captive by a power you do not understand, it is hard to find the music within.

Some say that we could not sing because we could not stop crying. Every time we imagined we had run out of tears, new wailing broke out of our chests. Panting, we could not hold a note.

Midrash teaches that the rivers of Babylon were the industrial canals of the imperial capital. Where once we had drunk from freshwater springs, we now sat by sewage works and polluted channels. Our choleric lungs heaved and choked the psalms we wished to sing.

There on willow branches we hung up our violins.

Stringed instruments hung on stringed trees. If we cannot make music, maybe these old branches will play our lyres on our behalf. 

Maybe we will sing again, so we won’t lay our tools on the ground, but gently tie them up in knotted bark. We will return to you, violins. 

Maybe we hoped that the long leaves of willows drooping in layers would provide cover so that nobody would know we once used to play such melodies in our religious buildings. Maybe if they don’t know how joyous we once were, they won’t expect us to be joyous again. Pray they don’t ask us to sing.

For the wicked carried us away to captivity, and required of us a song. 

We are in a strange land of captivity. We live in times that people keep calling unprecedented. Six months ago, few of us would have imagined we would be in the midst of a response to a global pandemic. None of us have lived through mass government responses to a pandemic in Britain. It is unusual to realise we do not have the freedoms we once knew.

Even though governments around the world have announced easing of restrictions, we cannot yet return to activities we once knew. We have to be careful, because the captor, Covid, still exists. We have to make choices about how we respond.

The Israelites lasted 70 years in Babylon. We could endure 3 months in our homes.

But in some ways, those 70 years were easier than the ones that followed. In captivity, Jeremiah told us to make the most of where we were because we would not be coming out any time soon. But when Jerusalem reopened, we did not know whether to stay or leave, and every option seemed like it would be the wrong choice.

In some ways, lockdown was easier. We knew what the parameters were and how to operate within them. Now, we are confused about what is the right thing to do is, as the conflicting needs of our mental health, our physical security and our economic livelihoods clash. 

And somehow we are supposed to sing.

How can we sing the song of God in a strange land?

No, we cannot sing. It is one of the highest risk activities. The virus is airborne and transmitted when people dig deep in their lungs and project droplets from their diaphragms into someone else’s mouth. The collective singing involved in synagogue services, music concerts and sports matches is the greatest threat to overcoming the pandemic.

We enter a strange land where, for the first time in many decades, most progressive synagogues will be closed for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Once, Zoom felt like alien soil, although we have come to comfortably inhabit it for our Friday nights and Saturday mornings. Maybe it won’t feel like such a strange land by the time we arrive.

But how can we sing? Didn’t we try collective singing over Zoom? Everyone goes at a different tempo, completely out of synch, creating disharmony and awkward clangs. The first time we tried to sing together in disunity I felt like I had to go back and patch over all the cracks in our voices.

But in captivity, the Israelites learnt that even in the unprecedented land of Babylon, they had to find a way to sing. The Psalms are testament that even when we felt we could not make music, we still composed new material. 

For centuries, the Hassids have rejoiced in singing out of sync. The nign, a wordless song intended to elevate the spirit, finds its strength in discordance and repetition. These mystics sing the same note sequence repeatedly, without aiming for harmony. They trust that, however it is arranged, the tune will reach God. 

Perhaps we, too, can learn to enjoy singing out of sync.

That challenge feels even more pertinent now in a country whose rhythms have fallen out of sync. Some worry about losing their jobs. Some worry about losing their health. Some worry about losing their minds. And, with these concerns, everyone is making different decisions based on their comfort levels.

It is hard to feel like we are not singing in time with our neighbours. Some wish that everyone would just stay inside until we find a cure. Some wish that everyone would relax and go out. We look at each other with confusion, and struggle to find acceptable social norms.

Like the Israelites in Babylon, we have to find ways for sore lungs to sing out of sync. Anyone in the community who does not feel ready to go out yet should be supported to stay home. Anyone who feels they need to see their loved ones should be encouraged. And people who just need to get their hair cut or buy a coffee from a cafe should feel empowered to do so responsibly.

There is nothing wrong with feeling unease. The terrain we stand on is unfamiliar and there is much we do not know. But of all the things we can sacrifice, trust in the other members of our community should not be one of them. 

The reason the Israelites survived their exile was because they knew they could depend on each other. They had different experiences and different aspirations, but knew they were created by the same God.

As we sit by these rivers in a strange land, let us trust each other to sing out of synch, and know that one day, we will return home, and sing together in harmony once again.

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I gave this sermon on Friday 10th July 2020 for Three Counties Liberal Judaism. I thank my housemate, Joanna Phillips, for her support with the audio recording.