Parashiot Behar-Bechukotai 5785
25 years ago this Shabbat, I stood up on the Bima for the first time. This may surprise some of you, but I was not particularly inspired around my parasha (Bechukotai), or motivated around my Bat Mitzvah as a whole. The Rabbi, very well meaning, tried to help me and get me excited about it, but my teenage angst and ennui triumphed over her efforts. I gave a drash that I cannot repeat here, because it was honestly kind of offensive, but the essence was that—this parasha is about blessings and curses, and sometimes things aren’t always so clear. Sometimes, I said in my drash 25 years ago, something can seem like a blessing but actually be a curse, or seem like a curse and lead to a blessing.
Now, 25 years later with at least a little more wisdom, I can say that sometimes blessings are just blessings. The flowers blooming towards the sky, laughter with friends, really good coffee, dancing. And, sometimes, as we experienced this week with the murder of a young couple outside of the Jewish Museum in DC, curses are just curses. The ways I have seen people use this murder, fueled by hatred, to lift up their own cause, or justify oppression in either direction, is simply a distraction. If we cut away all the noise, all of the pointing fingers, the justications, the desire for revenge—we find the raw simplicity of grief and pain.
Martin Prechtel—an indigenous writer and scholar—writes in his book The Smell of Rain on Dust, “Grief expressed out loud, whether in or out of character, unchoreographed and honest, for someone we have lost, or a country or home we have lost, is in itself the greatest praise we could ever give them. Grief is praise, because it is the natural way love honors what it misses.”
Expression of our grief, he writes, is the biggest gift we can give those we have lost. In his book, he describes in detail a grief ritual we are to do when we are wrecked by grief, when it feels like we can’t go on. “Go to the sea or a body of water,” he instructs, with a companion who is the designated non-griever. This person is to keep you company for 1-3 days as you cry, pray, tell stories about what you have loved and lost, and offer your prayers to the sea. This person makes sure you are fed, warm, and comfortable during this time.
As you do this ritual, he writes bluntly about how to relate to the water. “The sea, the lake, the river, steam or spring is not a piece of land or waterscape; they are Holy and alive and listening.” He writes, “Get that firm inside of you, so you don’t come and go as if the natural world was just a dead inanimate prop for your therapy. That’s no different than mining. Yuck.”
Our parasha similarly speaks of a land that is alive, listening, desiring and deserving of rest. It speaks of Shmita—release and letting go that we are commanded to do every seven years, as well as the Yovel—Jubilee—year. In a sense, our parasha is full of the reminders that we are guests here, and we need to treat our home with deep care and reverence. Our Parasha speaks of a land that is Holy, and one that will lash out if not treated properly, leading to devastation and exile.
Meor Eynayim writes on the first pasuk of our parasha, which instructs the Israelites to observe Shmita, “Here God promises Israel that when they come to the land of Israel their hearts will be at peace. ‘Land’ teaches of the heart. This is ‘let the land rest,’ that their hearts shall be at peace.” The Meor Eynayim—even writing from the diaspora—is touching on the innate connection between land and heart. That when the land is at peace, our hearts are at peace.
When the land is not at peace, as it has not been for almost 600 days, our hearts cannot be fully at peace. And yet, we still have Shabbat, a microcosm of Shmita. A dedicated day each week to release—or intend to release. A day to reach for peace, abundance, and wholeness.
Today I approach the Bima with less ennui and teenage angst, but instead with the truth that blessings are blessings and curses are sometimes simply curses. Our ability to grieve the loss of the blessings—and grieve them together—is the biggest gift of praise, the most profound demonstration of our love.
May we be blessed with land and hearts that are at peace—and when they are not at peace, may we be blessed with the ability to grieve fully and deeply, turning our pain into the most beautiful gift of praise for the thing, person, people, land we have loved so deeply.
Shabbat Shalom.
