The sixth day of Elul

In the Talmud there is a discussion about what happens after we die. We go to Sheol – a Hebrew word deriving from the verb “to question” – and there we are interrogated. We will be asked four questions about the life we have lived. They are good questions and I want us to ask – and even to try to answer them for ourselves. They are questions that can stay with us as we prepare for the Yamim Noraim – and as we move into the coming years.

The second question God asks is this:
Asakta b’priya u’reviyah?
Did you devote yourself to family?
If engaging in Torah is a way of reaching both forwards and backwards in time and of pulling both into our worlds, how much more so is the family the touchstone of our immortality. We inherit so much from our parents and from their parents – not only physical looks and inherited tendencies, not only gestures and ways of being in the world. We inherit all sorts of other things – second and third generation groups will speak of the damage that can be passed through families. Dynasties of musicians or scientists demonstrate the intangibles that get passed on. Social workers can speak of the cycles of abuse or neglect; community rabbis can testify to the many non Jews who come to them to convert to Judaism – because they feel Jewish, because on further research a Jewish grand parent or great grandparent has been discovered, because they just know they have a Jewish soul.
Our liturgy speaks of a Book of Life in which all our actions are recorded. It is a powerful image, a metaphor for the truth that nothing we do – neither good nor bad – is ever really lost in this world, even if we forget. The book of Life exists in a number of ways, it exists within our own souls, but we also write it upon the souls of our family – our children, our parents, our partners, our family relations and the friends who act as our family in this modern more fractured world.
In particular, the book of our life is inscribed upon our children. They take on our pain and they internalise our experiences. They pay for many of our mistakes, and they struggle not to take on our lives and our expectations instead of their own.
The question we are asked after we die will not be did we love our family, or did we leave them well provided for. It is more subtle and complex than that. Rather like the first question it is about how we set our priorities in our life more than the actual acts we did or did not do. So, did we set aside time for Torah means did we engage in Jewish activity and covenant, but it also asks – did we control our time in such a way that we were able to make the choices we wanted to make? Did we fritter away our time or give away the control of our lives to someone else and abdicate from the responsibilities of our freedom? Asakta b’priyah uv’riyah? Means did we busy ourselves with our families, did we devote our energy and our thoughts to them, did we make their needs our preoccupation?
It is a truism that when we look back in our lives, what we regret tends not to be the things we did, but the things we didn’t do. All community rabbis will tell you that no-one regrets not spending more time in the office, but many people regret not spending more time with their families. So here is the question – asakta b’priyah uv’riyah? – did you engage with and invest in your family? Did you make time for them and be with them? Because when you look over your life, you will see that your family provide your structure, your history and your future. You will live on in them and with them; they are the ropes of life into which your soul is bound.

The first question can be found in yesterday’s post

Fifth day of Elul

In the Talmud there is a discussion about what happens after we die. We go to Sheol – a Hebrew word deriving from the verb “to question” – and there we are interrogated. We will be asked four questions about the life we have lived. They are good questions and I want us to ask – and even to try to answer them for ourselves. They are questions that can stay with us as we prepare for the Yamim Noraim – and as we move into the coming years.
The first question is this
“Kav’ata Itim L’Torah? Did you set aside time for Torah?”
Did you set aside time for torah? Not, you’ll notice, ‘did you study Torah’. Nor ‘did you follow all the halachic requirements predicated on torah text?” But did you set aside time for Torah – the question isn’t academic.
Torah you see isn’t simply a book, it isn’t a text that we can learn or a narrative we teach our children. Torah has many more dimensions than that. It is a process, it is a history, it is the ongoing dialogue across generations between Jews and Jews, and Jews and God. So when we get ourselves involved in Torah, when we join the conversation and add the experiences and reflections of our lives to the living narrative of Torah, that is when we fit ourselves into our people and truly enter the Covenant. To set aside time for Torah is to be willing to identify in, to be prepared to challenge our ancestral understanding of God, to be ready to encounter God in modernity with open heart. To set aside time for Torah is to say “I will engage with life as a Jew – and in doing so I hope to enrich Judaism and deepen life. And I will add my link to the chain of tradition that remembers the past, supports the present and reaches out to a future I will not know”.

The next question will be posted tomorrow

Fourth Day of Elul

In the vidui, the confession to be recited so many times at this season, we find the phrase “Al cheit she’chatanu lefanecha b’tim’hon ley’vav – For the sin we have committed before you by giving in to despair.” It slips by almost unnoticed most of the time as we recite a catalogue of misbehaviours by rote. But is despair really a sin and can we repent of it and actively change our attitudes? R. Nachman of Bratslav is credited with crystallising the concept, saying “there is no such thing as despair” and even, on his death bed: “Assur l’hit’ya-esh – It is forbidden to despair – never give up hope” (Likutei Moharan ll.78).
In our machzor the phrase comes in a set which includes the sins of plotting against others, hard heartedness, arrogance, and giving in to our evil impulse and secrecy. It is a strange positioning – The giving in to despair is sandwiched between a sense of our own arrogance– literally eynaim ramot – raised eyes, and our own yetzer ha’ra – our selfishness and base inclination. This placing seems to suggest that when we choose not to engage with reality, either by refusing to see what is around us or by allowing our internally constructed world view to dominate us – that is when despair creeps in.
Nachman also wrote “Im atta m’amim she’y’cholin lekalkeil, ta’amin she’y’cholim le’taken: – If you believe that it is possible to break things, you must also believe that it is possible to repair things”. So whatever we have broken in the past year let’s not despair, but know that it is time to repair by really noticing what is happening around us rather than living in the bubble of our own self constructed realities.

Third Day of Elul


Martin Buber wrote in The Way of Man “To begin with oneself, but not to end with oneself; To start from oneself but not to aim at oneself. To comprehend oneself, but not to be preoccupied with oneself (Martin Buber 1878-1965)

His near contemporary Achad Ha’Am wrote “Judaism did not turn heavenward and create in heaven an eternal habitation of souls. It found ‘eternal life’ on earth, by strengthening the social feeling in the individual by making them regard themselves not as isolated beings with an existence bounded by birth and death, but as part of a larger whole. As a limb of the social body…I live for the sake of the member. I die to make room for new individuals who will mould the community afresh and not allow it to stagnate and remain forever in one position. When the individual thus values the community as their own life, and strives after its happiness as though it here their individual wellbeing, they find satisfaction and no longer feel so keenly the bitterness of their individual existence, because they see the end for which they live and suffer.” (Achad Ha’Am aka Asher Hirsch Ginsberg 1856-1927)

Both speak the same truth – we are intimately connected with others, we cannot become so focussed on our own needs or desires that we ever forget that our lives are one thread in a continually weaving fabric, that we need other people and other people need us – we cannot hide in an ascetic practise and leave the human world behind, for we are a fundamental and necessary part of that human world.


In the words of Buber, Judaism does not make personal salvation our highest aim but “Judaism regards each [person’s] soul as a serving member of God’s creation, which, by the work of human beings is to become the Kingdom of God; …True, each [soul] is to know itself, purify itself, perfect itself, but not for its own sake – neither for the sake of its temporal happiness nor for that of its eternal bliss, but for the sake of the work which it is destined to perform upon the world” (p37 The Way of Man)

The Second Day of Elul

מוֹדֶה אֲנִי לְפָנֶיךָ מֶלֶךְ חַי וְקַיָּם שֶׁהֶחֱזַרְתָּ בִּי נִשְׁמָתִי בְּחֶמְלָה, רַבָּה אֱמוּנָתֶךָ:
I give thanks to You living and everlasting Sovereign, for You have restored my soul with mercy. Great is Your faithfulness. (Weekday shacharit service, prayers of preparation)
Every morning our liturgy gives us these words of gratitude. Jewish tradition views sleep as being like one sixtieth of death (Berachot 57b) and the Gemara goes on to suggest prayers before sleeping “One who enters to sleep on his bed recites in his bed from Shema Yisrael.. Then he recites: Blessed…Who makes the bands of sleep fall upon my eyes and slumber upon my eyelids, and illuminates the pupil of the eye. May it be Your will, Eternal my God, that You make me lie down in peace …. Let neither bad dreams nor troubling thoughts disturb me…. Enlighten my eyes in the morning lest I sleep the sleep of death, never to awaken. Blessed are You, God, Who gives light to the whole world in Your glory. (Berachot 60b)
Many religions see sleep as being related to death, and describe this observable loss of consciousness as the soul leaving the body; dreams become the experiences the soul encounters, portents from another place. And Judaism is no exception – we thank God for restoring our souls to our bodies upon awakening. But this prayer goes further than gratitude for another day of life. The two words “rabbah emunatecha” – your faith/faithfulness is great” add an extra layer of meaning for us. Most prayers elaborate on our faith in God, or at least our aspiration to have such faith. But here we describe the entity with faith not as the human being grateful to God, but God themself – who has faith in us.
The phrase comes into the liturgy from the book of Lamentations (3:22) and reminds us that however hard we are finding life, however low we might feel, or dislocated from and abandoned by God, God continues to have mercy on us, God continues to have faith in us. All we have to do is to turn and find our way back to God, and God will be ready to greet us. A repeated message in the liturgy of the season of the Yamim Noraim, that God is waiting for our teshuvah. But also a daily message – this may be the season for teshuvah, but the gates of repentance are never closed.
“To recall my distress and my misery/ Was wormwood and poison;
Whenever I thought of them, I was bowed low.
But this do I call to mind, Therefore I have hope:
The kindness of GOD has not ended / And God’s mercies are not spent.
They are renewed every morning— Ample is Your grace!
“GOD is my portion,” I say with full heart; This is the One in whom I have hope.
(Lam. 3 :19-24)

First Day of Elul

Elul is traditionally a month of introspection and preparation for the coming Yamim Noraim – Days of Awe.
Like many months of the Hebrew calendar its name is Babylonian in origin and probably has its roots in the Akkadian word for a harvest, though it has resonances also of the verb “to protrude” אלל (‘alal), and of the noun “a futile thing” אלול (‘elul)
In Aramaic, the verb אלל (‘alal), means “to encircle” or “to search out”, which corresponds to the Hebrew verb עלל (‘alal), to glean.
We might drash on this that Elul is month that demands our attention, a month we might use to search our lives and the way we are living, both in order to gather together and celebrate our best characteristics and allow them to nourish the way we live our lives, and at the same time to sift out the empty and futile aspects of ourselves and our lives.
There are many rabbinic explanations for the name of this month, two of which are:
That it is an acronymic reference to the first letters of the phrase in the Song of Songs אני לדודי ודודי לי “I am by Beloved’s and my Beloved is mine” – the “Beloved” in this reading being God rather than a more temporal partner. And
That it is a reference to a verse in the Book of Esther אִישׁ לְרֵעֵהוּ, וּמַתָּנוֹת לָאֶבְיֹנִים “Each person to their neighbour, and gifts to the poor”
Wildly different books and contexts – but what brings them together?
The four words in each reading not only have the letters of “Elul” represented, but each word asks a similar question for us while we glean and search ourselves, separating the futile from the worthwhile as we turn ourselves towards God once more.
The first word Ani/Ish represents our human selves. Who am I? What is my “selfhood”? What is my humanity about?
The second word – LeDodi/l’Rei’eihu bespeaks relationship with others or the “Other”.
The third word “V’dodi”/Matanot asks “What does God want from me?” “What can/do I contribute to the world?”
The fourth word Li/le’evyonim nudges us into asking “How do I get to my best self?” How do I bring about change?
The verse from Esther is set in the context of change – turning mourning to joy. It reminds us that such a journey can be made, change can happen – even in the most unlikely circumstances
The journey of Elul begins with the self and ends with the self, but the self at the end of the process is not the same as the one who began it.

Tu b’Shevat – make us more tree

Mishnah Rosh Hashanah begins with two different set of four dates – the first mishnah speaks of the four new years for taxation/institutional official purposes-

אַרְבָּעָה רָאשֵׁי שָׁנִים הֵם. בְּאֶחָד בְּנִיסָן רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לַמְּלָכִים וְלָרְגָלִים. בְּאֶחָד בֶּאֱלוּל רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לְמַעְשַׂר בְּהֵמָה. רַבִּי אֶלְעָזָר וְרַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן אוֹמְרִים, בְּאֶחָד בְּתִשְׁרֵי. בְּאֶחָד בְּתִשְׁרֵי רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לַשָּׁנִים וְלַשְּׁמִטִּין וְלַיּוֹבְלוֹת, לַנְּטִיעָה וְלַיְרָקוֹת. בְּאֶחָד בִּשְׁבָט, רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לָאִילָן, כְּדִבְרֵי בֵית שַׁמַּאי. בֵּית הִלֵּל אוֹמְרִים, בַּחֲמִשָּׁה עָשָׂר בּוֹ:

They are four New Years: On the first of Nisan is the New Year for kings; And for (the order of) the Festivals, On the first of Elul is the New Year for animal tithes; Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Shimon say: on the first of Tishrei. On the first of Tishrei is the New Year for years, (including for counting)Sabbatical Years and Jubilee Years, for planting young trees , and for (tithing) vegetables, On the first of Shevat is the New Year for the tree in accordance with the statement of Beit Shammai. But Beit Hillel say: The New Year for trees is on the fifteenth of Shevat.

The second Mishnah tells us about the four days of judgement:

בְּאַרְבָּעָה פְרָקִים הָעוֹלָם נִדּוֹן, בְּפֶסַח עַל הַתְּבוּאָה, בַּעֲצֶרֶת עַל פֵּרוֹת הָאִילָן, בְּרֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה כָּל בָּאֵי הָעוֹלָם עוֹבְרִין לְפָנָיו כִּבְנֵי מָרוֹן, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר (תהלים לג) הַיּוֹצֵר יַחַד לִבָּם, הַמֵּבִין אֶל כָּל מַעֲשֵׂיהֶם. וּבֶחָג נִדּוֹנִין עַל הַמָּיִם:

At four times of the year the world is judged: On Passover judgment is passed concerning grain; on Shavuot concerning fruits that grow on a tree; on Rosh HaShana, all creatures pass before Him like sheep [benei maron], as it is stated: “He Who fashions their hearts alike, Who considers all their deeds” (Psalms 33:15); and on the festival of Sukkot they are judged concerning water, i.e., the rainfall of the coming year.

At first sight, the connection between the two seems to be simply that the author of the Mishnah is grouping sets of four. But look a little closer and we see some quirks within the texts that draw attention – specifically I’m interested in the preponderance of trees – three of the eight special days mention them, and that in fact each time rather than mentioning trees (plural), the mishnah speaks of “tree” (singular) – even though the mishnaic word for tree – Ilan – has a regular plural.

The word for tree in bible is עץ  (eitz) whereas the rabbinic literature tends to use the word  ָאִילָן ilan”, influenced by the Aramaic, and also probably in order to distinguish more between different species of tree. 

Curiously in Biblical Hebrew, the word עץ seems to mean either ‘a’ tree (singular) or trees (plural), and when found in the plural form עצים (eitzim), the meaning is never “trees”, but “wood”.

It is likely to be a two letter root, though it may be derived from יעץ ya’atz – meaning to advise or to counsel, or the verb עצם atzam – to be strong or mighty, from which we get the noun  עצם etzem, meaning bones.  Or it could be connected to עצה meaning to bind or to attach.

What does this tell us about ancient Judaism’s view of trees?  Trees appear frequently in our texts and at critically important junctures in the narratives.. In the first story of Creation, on the third day God separated the sea from the dry land and then created the very first living things – trees.

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֱלֹהִ֗ים תַּֽדְשֵׁ֤א הָאָ֙רֶץ֙ דֶּ֗שֶׁא עֵ֚שֶׂב מַזְרִ֣יעַ זֶ֔רַע עֵ֣ץ פְּרִ֞י עֹ֤שֶׂה פְּרִי֙ לְמִינ֔וֹ אֲשֶׁ֥ר זַרְעוֹ־ב֖וֹ עַל־הָאָ֑רֶץ וַֽיְהִי־כֵֽן׃

And God said, “Let the earth sprout vegetation: seed-bearing plants, fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it.” And it was so. (Genesis 1:11-12)

In the second creation story we read וַיִּטַּ֞ע יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהִ֛ים גַּן־בְּעֵ֖דֶן מִקֶּ֑דֶם וַיָּ֣שֶׂם שָׁ֔ם אֶת־הָֽאָדָ֖ם אֲשֶׁ֥ר יָצָֽר׃

The ETERNAL God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and placed there the Human who had been fashioned.

וַיַּצְמַ֞ח יְהֹוָ֤ה אֱלֹהִים֙ מִן־הָ֣אֲדָמָ֔ה כׇּל־עֵ֛ץ נֶחְמָ֥ד לְמַרְאֶ֖ה וְט֣וֹב לְמַאֲכָ֑ל וְעֵ֤ץ הַֽחַיִּים֙ בְּת֣וֹךְ הַגָּ֔ן וְעֵ֕ץ הַדַּ֖עַת ט֥וֹב וָרָֽע׃

And from the ground the ETERNAL God caused to grow every tree that was pleasing to the sight and good for food, with the tree of life in the middle of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and bad.  (Genesis 2:8-9)

It seems as if the creation of trees and the creation of human beings are intimately connected. Each are at the pinnacle of their category of creation.

The midrash (Kohelet Rabbah 7:13) tells the following story ““When God created the first human being he took him and showed him all the trees  of the Garden of Eden and said to him, ‘See my works, how beautiful and praiseworthy they are. And everything that I created, I created it for you. Be careful not to spoil or destroy my world–for if you do, there will be nobody after you to repair it.’”

God tells Adam that the trees were created for human beings, and warns him that any damage to them will be irreparable – beautiful trees created for humanity must be cared for scrupulously. The lives – and potentially the deaths – of trees and humanity are intertwined.

This is, I think beautifully embedded in the idea of our bones being connected to the word for tree. Beyond the idea of a human skeletal frame mirroring a tree, beyond the idea of bones being strong and supportive and connected, the bone is the innermost and most enduring part of the body and so the word comes also to express the core of a person, their essence or substance or ultimately, themselves.

Louis Ginzberg in his “Legends of the Jews” – a compendium of stories and midrashim in Jewish text, tells us

The  main  creation  of  the  third  day  was  the  realm  of  plants,  the  terrestrial  plants  as  well  as  the  plants  of  Paradise. First  of  all  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  and  the  other  great trees  were  made.  In  their  pride  at  having  been  put  first, they  shot  up  high  in  the  air.  They  considered  themselves the  favoured  among  plants.    Then  God  spoke,  ”  I  hate  arrogance  and  pride,  for  I  alone  am  exalted,  and  none  beside,” and  He  created  the  iron  on  the  same  day,  the  substance  with which  trees  are  felled  down.  The  trees  began  to  weep,  and when  God  asked  the  reason  of  their  tears,  they  said :  ”  We cry  because  You have created  the  iron  to  uproot  us  therewith. All  the  while  we  had  thought  ourselves  the  highest  of the  earth,  and  now  the  iron,  our  destroyer,  has  been  called into  existence.”  God  replied :  ”  You  yourselves  will  furnish

the  axe  with  a  handle.  Without  your  assistance  the  iron will  not  be  able  to  do  aught  against  you.”  ”  (Ginzburg legends of the Jews Creation of the World 19)

Deuteronomy 20:19 speaks of behaviour in war,

כִּֽי־תָצ֣וּר אֶל־עִיר֩ יָמִ֨ים רַבִּ֜ים לְֽהִלָּחֵ֧ם עָלֶ֣יהָ לְתׇפְשָׂ֗הּ לֹֽא־תַשְׁחִ֤ית אֶת־עֵצָהּ֙ לִנְדֹּ֤חַ עָלָיו֙ גַּרְזֶ֔ן כִּ֚י מִמֶּ֣נּוּ תֹאכֵ֔ל וְאֹת֖וֹ לֹ֣א תִכְרֹ֑ת כִּ֤י הָֽאָדָם֙ עֵ֣ץ הַשָּׂדֶ֔ה לָבֹ֥א מִפָּנֶ֖יךָ בַּמָּצֽוֹר׃

“When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the axe against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down. Are trees of the field human to withdraw before you into the besieged city? “

While we traditionally read the last part of the verse as if it is a question, many commentators note that the literal meaning is not interrogative, but instead translates as “for a human is a tree of the field” (see for example BT Ta’anit 7a, or the comment of Ibn Ezra (ad loc) man is a tree of the field… In my opinion…The meaning is as follows: You may eat of them, but do not cut them down, for man is a tree of the field (i.e., the life of man depends on the trees of the field).

The interconnectedness of human beings and trees can be found all over our texts – from the trees in the Garden of Eden whose forbidden fruit is the catalyst to humans leaving that place, to the Proverb (3:18) that Torah is “Etz Chaim” a tree of life to all who grasp it עֵץ־חַיִּים הִיא לַמַּחֲזִיקִים בָּהּ וְתֹמְכֶיהָ מְאֻשָּׁר׃.  Trees provide shade and security in multiple narratives, most notably when Abraham sits under the oak trees of Mamre when he is visited by the angels who will announce the birth of Isaac, gopher wood  is used in the building of Noah’s ark, olive branches signpost the existence of dry land at the end of the great flood, Deborah sits under a palm tree to act as Judge. Bezalel makes the ark of the covenant from acacia wood, Aaron’s rod blossoms into an almond tree, and of course there is reference to cedars and cypress and olives and figs throughout the text. Trees accompany us through life, and even mark our graves (for example Deborah the nurse of Rebecca is buried under an oak and the place named “alon bacut – a tree of weeping). They are with us in the desert, in the mountains, on the plains – and in exile.  They act as sentry and as shade, signal the presence of water in dry lands and produce essential foods – olives, figs, pomegranates and dates….

So it is possibly not surprising that we have a particular blessing for seeing fruit trees in blossom. However this blessing is unusual, indeed it is unique, for in no other blessing do we refer to any natural being or event as being “of benefit to human beings”. We don’t bless the rain like this, nor crops, nor sunshine nor animals nor food nor wine –it is only when we see more than one flowering fruit tree together that this blessing is invoked.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה
יהוה אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ
מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם
שֶׁלֹּא חִסֵּר בְּעוֹלָמוֹ כְּלוּם
וּבָרָא בּוֹ בְּרִיּוֹת טוֹבוֹת
וְאִילָנוֹת טוֹבוֹת
לְהִתְנָאוֹת בָּהֶן בְּנֵי אָדָם׃

Blessed are you, Adonai our God, ruler of the universe
who has made nothing lacking in the world at all, 
but Who created a good creation and good trees
for the children of Adam to benefit from them

To return to the midrash: in Bereishit Rabbah we read that as a response to the arrogance of the trees, God is said to have created iron on the same day. The trees cried out in fear – God had created the very material that would be used to destroy them. God’s response is telling – indeed there is the possibility of an axe being used to fell trees, but for such a destruction the trees would have to play a part – the handle of any axe would of necessity be made from wood.

I think of this story every time Tu b’Shevat comes around, and we focus on environmental ethics and ecological need. We often remind ourselves with the midrash from Kohelet that the world was created for human beings, but that if we damage it there is no one who will be able to put it right afterwards. This  is a frightening thought – there are long term and unmitigable consequences to our behaviour towards our world. But I think we should also remind ourselves that when great damage is done, it requires our participation or at the very least our assent. Environmental damage is done not by “others” with no connection to ourselves, but we have to admit that we too are part of the process.  Whether it is the clearing of rain forests for planting crops or palm trees for their oil. Whether it is the plague of plastic pollution in the oceans as well as on land, or the greenhouse gasses, emissions from transport vehicles of all kinds, food waste and food miles…. – we all partake of the creation of the damage. We are the wooden handle holding the iron blade, we are complicit.

I think it is almost impossible not to be party to the damage, though it is good for us to educate ourselves to mitigate our contribution. And trees also teach us that there can be growth and regeneration if the destruction is halted. The very word means has meanings of connection, of strength and wise counsel. And how often have we seen a tree stump regrow – be it the very real sycamore gap tree by Hadrian’s wall (https://www.npr.org/2024/08/01/nx-s1-5060047/sycamore-gap-tree-regrowth-go-tree-go) or the messianic metaphor in the prophesy of Isaiah (11:1-3) that A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit. /The Spirit of the Eternal will rest on him— the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding, the Spirit of counsel and of might, the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the Lord—and he will delight in the fear of the Lord”.    Trees can, and do, regenerate.

We should maybe be “more tree”. Planted firmly on the earth and reaching up into the sky, Generous with our offerings to the world – the fruit and flowers of trees sustain not only human beings but many wild animals and birds. Bringing beauty and stability and strength and comfort to the world -trees provide shade and security and homes for many insects and birds.

Even to begin to understand our connectedness to nature,  to begin to mitigate our actions and our assent to the damage being done in our world, so that with small changes in behaviour we can make a difference, that I think is what these texts are telling us.

Tu biShvat is a date to focus our attention. And I think the date – even the disagreement about the date – is an important signal to us. It is the only  “new year” not to fall on the first of the month, but instead on the new moon. Discussion around the chosen date recognises that it fits no obvious good time for planting, or for the blossom to be open and seen – instead the traditional commentators make rather random claims that the rain is “mostly fallen” – it is still within the rainy season in Israel, a terrible time to plant as any gardener will advise.  So why claim a date that cannot be said to be seasonal for the calculation of tax of the fruit of trees? I think because tradition wants us to look further than the dry calculation of tithing and accountancy, to think about the importance of trees in our world, and to remind us of their deep connection to us.

In the poem by Max Halperin

Aseini K’Ilan: Make Me Like A Tree, Max Halperin
Make me like a tree rooted on the water, with fruit to give in its time.
Make me like lightning descending from the sky, illuminating the earth for a moment.
Make me like rain, light or heavy, that gives strength to a tired world.
Make me like wheat, simple and common, that brings forth our bread from the earth.
Make me like myrtle aside the lulav, that gives its color to joy.
Make me like a red rose with thorns, beautiful and strong in its way.
Make me like an olive with pure oil, a symbol of serenity and our dedication.
Make me like the sun that rises with us, which colors the sky with its light.
Make me like the dew on the grass, making the land glimmer at each dawn.
Make me like the sea, vast and unified, which renews the shore and itself.
Make me like a windflower, little and tall, a dot of color in the winter fields.
Make me like the moon alight in the darkness, smiling from among the stars.
Make me like the desert, open on all sides, strengthening all who trust it.
Make me like a river on the forest floor, rushing to enliven its world.
Make me like a bush with colorful flowers, beautifying its surroundings with its presence.
Make me like a cloud in a blue expanse, and its community that dances with the spirit.
Make me like an unripe fruit on its branch, constantly growing and sweetening.
Make me like nectar within a flower, feeding the smallest animals.
Make me like a rainbow against the gray, a promise of improving times.
Make me like a pomegranate with many seeds, a symbol of new beginnings.
Make me like a lily resting on the water, reaching up from the depths.
Make me like an apple waiting on its tree, prepared to ripen at its time.

עֲשֵׁנִי כְּאִילָן שָׁתוּל עַל הַמַּיִם, עִם פֵּרוֹת לָתֵת בִּזְמַנּוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּבָרָק יוֹרֵד מִן שָׁמַיִם, שֶׁמֵּאִיר אֶת הָעוֹלָם לִשְׁנִיָּה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּגֶשֶׁם קַל אוֹ כָּבֵד, שֶׁנּוֹתֵן כֹּחַ לְעוֹלָם עָיֵף

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּדָגָן פָּשׁוּט וְרָגִיל, שֶׁמּוֹצִיא לַחְמֵנוּ מִן הָאָרֶץ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּהֲדַס עַל יַד הַלּוּלָב, שֶׁנּוֹתֵן רֵיחוֹ לְשִׂמְחָה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּוֶּרֶד אָדֹם עִם קוֹצִים, יָפֶה וְחָזָק בְּדַרְכּוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּזַּיִת עִם שֶׁמֶן זַךְ, סֵמֶל שֶׁל שַׁלְוָה וְשֶׁל חֲנֻכָּתֵנוּ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּחַמָּה עוֹלָה אִתָּנוּ, שֶׁצּוֹבַעַת הַשָּׁמַיִם עִם אוֹרָה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כִּטְלָלִים עַל הַדֶּשֶׁא, הַמְּנַצְנְצִים עַל הָאָרֶץ בְּכָל זְרִיחָה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּיָּם גָּדוֹל וּמְאַחֵד, שֶׁמְּחַדֵּשׁ אֶת הַחוֹף וְאֶת עַצְמוֹ

 .עֲשֵׁנִי כְּכַלָּנִית קְטַנָּה וּגְבוֹהָה, נְקֻדָּה שֶׁל צֶבַע בִּשְׂדוֹת הַחֹרֶף

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּלְּבָנָה נָגַהּ בַּחֹשֶׁךְ, הַמְּחַיֶּכֶת מִתּוֹךְ הַכּוֹכָבִים

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּמִּדְבָּר פָּתוּחַ בְּכָל צַד, שֶׁהֶחֱזִיק אֶת כָּל שֶׁהֶאֱמִין בּוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּנָהָר עַל רִצְפַּת הַיַּעַר, שֶׁרָץ לִחְיוֹת עוֹלָמוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כִּסְנֶה עִם פְּרָחִים צִבְעוֹנִים, יָפֶה סְבִיבָתוֹ עִם נוֹכְחוּתוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּעָנָן בָּרָקִיעַ כָּחֹל, וּקְהִלָּתוֹ שֶׁרוֹקֶדֶת עִם הָרוּחַ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּפָגָה עַל עֲנָפָהּ, גְּדֵלָה וּמוֹתֶקֶת תָּמִיד

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּצוּף בְּתוֹךְ הַפֶּרַח, מַאֲכִיל לְהַחֲיוֹת הַהֲכִי קִתְנוֹת

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּקֶשֶׁת כְּנֶגֶד הָאָפֹר, הַבְטָחָה לִזְמַנִּים מְשֻׁפָּרִים

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּרִמּוֹן עִם גַּרְעִינִים רַבִּים, הַמְּבַשֵּׂר לְהַתְחָלוֹת חֲדָשׁוֹת

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּשׁוֹשָׁן נָח עַל הַמַּיִם, שֶׁהוֹשִׁיט כִּתְרוֹ לְמַעְלָה מֵהָעֵמֶק

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּתַפּוּחַ מְחַכֶּה עַל עָצוּ, נָכוֹן לְבַשֵּׁל בְּעִתּוֹ

Parashat Bo: real freedom isn’t given by others but constantly and repeatedly created and maintained by ourselves

When God re-enters history to bring the children of Israel back to their own land, as was promised in the covenants made with Abraham, Isaac and with Jacob, the relationship between humankind and God is altered for all time. 

In the book of Genesis, when the first human beings freely disobeyed Gods orders and ate from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, the result was that they acquired divine characteristics, and so, in case they would go on to acquire the ability to surmount life and death and become immortal, they had to go.  Thrust out of Eden, humankind had to get on with looking after itself, with only the gifts God gave them to survive and to thrive.

Later, when Abraham met God and began to understand something about the nature of the absoluteness of God, a different relationship developed – one of mutual obligation – a covenant.  This relationship was passed down from father to son through the particular blessing, and “Covenant” became a particular family characteristic, shared through the generations and eventually the many and diverse descendants. For the family we know from the Book of Genesis grew, and over the generations became “the children of Israel” who were not so much a family, not so much a tribe, as a people, bound together by blood and name, but also by circumstance. 

As slaves in Egypt they had a shared experience far more powerful than the stories they shared of common ancestry.  As an oppressed foreign labour force they shared humiliation and pain and they shared dreams of freedom too.  The notion of a Creator of the Universe who cared about them as individuals must have seemed very far-fetched – a figure of legend rather than a real presence. Yet they clung on to the stories and the traditions, they knew their yichus, their family background stories and narratives that gave them identity, and they knew about the Covenant and the Promise that they would one day return to their own land, and be free.

When God re-entered history, and re-entered the relationship between the descendants of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, it was to fulfil the conditions of the covenant made all that time ago, and to bring about real human freedom.  The story of the exodus reads as one of liberation from oppression, but scratch the surface a little and the liberation is a far greater one. It is the story of the true freedom – the freedom to be.

One of the most difficult ideas which confronts the reader of this narrative is that of Gods hardening the heart of Pharaoh.  It just doesn’t seem fair that Pharaoh is manipulated in this way; that he can’t back down and give up.  To the unwary reader God is portrayed as an unforgiving and devious God, barely giving the Pharaoh a chance to repent and change his mind.

But look at the whole story a little closer and something else emerges.  

Pharaoh operates on the assumption that not only can he refuse Gods requests, but that he can overrule God.  He assumes that his is the greater power; that the world operates on his say-so.  Any other ‘god’ is simply a less superior being than himself.  The battle that is waged between Pharaoh and God has to be one which destroys that assumption for all time: – as we pray at the end of the Aleinu “The Eternal shall be as a monarch over all the earth, On that day the Eternal shall be One and known as One”. 

It is the absoluteness of the Diving Being that must be recognised as this story unfolds, and with that recognition will come real understanding and hence real freedom. 

Pharaoh’s heart is hardened, his will is strengthened – he is empowered to act out fully his self-perception of his divinity, and no human weakness will prevent him from engaging in the battle between himself and God.  Each time he begins to falter,  he is buoyed up again by thinking himself in charge, in control of the world around him. He offers freedom and then rescinds his offer when the immediate threat is removed.  He feels himself to be in a position to negotiate; he thinks he holds all the cards and that is opponent will bend to his will.  His whole world view is cut off from the reality that we see the rest of Egypt begin to understand – his power is increasingly seen as irrelevant.

Yet still he carries on until his apparent divinity and power is shown up for what it is, he cannot keep his people safe, he cannot overpower his opponent in the battle for supremacy, he and his people are mortal.

After the terrible night that saw the deaths of the first born children and animals in all of Egypt, the children of Israel are sent on their way, thrust out yet again into an unknown future, yet this time at least they had a leader with a direct line of communication with God.

  The text tells us that before that final night and climactic terrible plague of death,  the children of Israel had to do something for themselves in a very public way – they had essentially to demonstrate their own confidence in God, and their contempt of Egyptian theology, by daubing their doorposts with blood from a newly slaughtered lamb, and many understand that the symbolism of this was huge – the lamb was one of the most powerful symbols of divinity used in Egypt.  Those who did this brave act were spared the effects of the passing over them of the Angel of Death; those who were not brave enough or sure enough to do so were treated like the rest of the Egyptians among whom they had chosen to stay, and their first born sons and animals were also killed. 

The Israelites were learning about real freedom throughout the plagues that were around them, they were learning that real freedom is in the self, and is not given – cannot be given – by another person.  They had light while the Egyptians had a deep darkness. 

So by the 10th plague the Israelites had learned about the freedom to be themselves and not be afraid of other people, and the Egyptians had apparently learned that what they assumed was their birthright to control their world did not in fact stand up.  They were not free to decide how the Israelites should live; they were not free to do exactly as they pleased at the cost of other people’s lives and with the consequent effacement of God. 

One might assume that liberation had truly been effected – both the physical and the mental and spiritual liberation of the exodus from Egypt. But the story goes on, describing exactly the human ability to disbelieve, to take refuge in habitual lines of thought.  For soon after the Israelites had left Egypt – an Egypt in mourning, devastated and destroyed by what had happened within its boundaries, the pharaoh picked himself up – no hardening of the heart this time – and sent an army with horsemen and chariots after them to bring them back.  And the Israelites, finding themselves between this army and the sea, feared greatly that the whole liberation was false, that they would be forced to return to slavery in Egypt. What happened then is a story everyone knows – the Israelites jumped into the water, the sea parted and the Israelites passed through but the Egyptians who followed were drowned.  Only when Pharaoh had lost his army, and all trappings of control, would he finally come to realise that he was not all powerful.  Only when the children of Israel took the plunge (if you’ll pardon the pun), and do what they had to do, and took a risk, did they come to believe in their own abilities to survive, in their own freedom.  The Song at the Sea begins with a telling phrase: ”When the people saw all that God had done, then they believed in the Eternal and in Moses God’s servant”. 

It took a huge amount of effort to force the Pharaoh and the Egyptians to realise that their economic and military control of the region did not in the end guarantee their freedom, and it took some huge risk taking on the part of the Israelites before they realised that their freedom lay within themselves, that it is not an external force at all.  All of the drama that went on in Egypt merely dressed the stage and acted as backdrop for the realisation that the freedom could have been found all along. It just took someone with a willingness to take a risk, and with a vision of freedom being available, for the whole scenario to play itself out.  From the expulsion from Eden through the repeated covenant relationship with Abraham Isaac and Jacob, God was there and waiting for the next stage. The story moved on with our willingness – or lack of willingness – to grasp freedom for ourselves, to recognise our role in creating freedom for ourselves and for others.

With all its obligations and responsibilities, its terrors and its pleasures, its risks and its rewards, freedom is scary. But unless we grasp it and work to keep it, and ensure that others are also able to enjoy it, we are not fulfilling our role in the world. As Rabbi Mordechai Kaplan, the founder of Reconstructionist Judaism recognised, “It is much harder to live a life of freedom and self-rule than to be ruled by others”. Yet this is the choice we must make, and Bible reassures us that in making it we will find we are not alone at all.

Shemot: God and we are both in the process of becoming. We will be what we will be.

When Moses first encounters God he asks for God’s name so as to be able to prove to the Israelites that he did indeed meet their ancestral deity, and God tells him not a name he will understand, but to say “Ehyeh asher Ehyeh – I will be what I will be – tell them Ehyeh sent you to them”

 The word Ehyeh is the first person future of the verb ‘to be’, and suggests that God is not a fixed and definable figure, knowable nameable and therefore predictable to human beings, but is rather an evolving, mysterious and dynamic power that is always in process of becoming more than what it was or is. The implication is that God grows and changes through contact with us, just as we grow and change in contact with God.

In the earliest books of the Hebrew bible God is very present – God speaks to individuals, walks with them, appears in our world.  Encounters with God are recognised as being what they are, the significance is understood.  And while much of the language describing the experience is of necessity quite simple and concrete – walking with, appearing, speaking – signs and wonders, outstretched arms, and so on, the writers of the text knew quite clearly that the real encounter was complex and abstract.  There is no language even to begin to paint the sense of the evolving, mysterious and dynamic power which is always in process, always becoming rather than merely being.  God may have been revealed to individuals, but making a sensible remembrance of that revelation is beyond the skills of human transmission.

Increasingly it seems to me we are losing the ability to communicate real religious experience as we more and more try to define, describe and explain everything around us, and more and more we seek to explain God.  Scriptural literalists take refuge in the minutiae of the meaning of the bible as they read it; secularists scoff at what they see as the inability to transmit coherent systems of understanding; people searching for spiritual depth are put off by the archaisms or anthropomorphisms.  How do we get across the reality of our encounters with God, the vibrancy of them, the totality of that transient understanding that has nothing to do with language?   How do we begin to recognise God, to recognise the significance of our meetings with God when we have no framework to do so? 

Every generation has created its own language for its religious encounters – the rabbis of the Talmud say that there are 70 names for God within the Hebrew bible, and they created many more. The mystics created the name EIN SOF – meaning “the entity without end”. The truth is that even after having called God every possible word, we still would not come close to revealing the mystery of the identity of God.  But that doesn’t give us the reason not to try to come closer.   Every generation is responsible for understanding God in its own way.  If God is truly always becoming as well as always being, then what God is in the process of becoming must have something to do with us and our own evolving, our own developing, our own relationship with God. 

If we are serious about our Judaism we have to base ourselves on the understanding that our own process is connected to God’s, the imperative for our continual ‘becoming’ is a reflection of Gods continual ‘becoming’, God is bound up with us and we with God: as God says at Sinai “You will be my people and I will be your God”. There is within such a statement the almost-heresy – if we no longer choose to be God’s people then God will no longer be our God.

For God to work in our world, we have to do God’s work. That we are partners with God in the world, Co-creators with God, is not a pious statement: it is an imperative we should not take lightly. God always ‘is’ regardless of what we do or don’t do, but what God ‘becomes’ is in our hands.