Shavuot 5785

I’ll never forget my first garden, and the true emotional rollercoaster she took me on. First it was the thrill of the first sprouts—in the beginnings of lockdown during COVID, any signs that new life, movement, and change were possible filled my otherwise empty and scared heart with joy. Each morning I would go outside and stare at the sprouts, take photos of them, talk to them (I didn’t have many other humans to talk to). It became a true ritual. Then there were the painful mornings of going outside and finding that a squirrel or bird (or a party of all sorts of animals) had feasted on my sprouts overnight, or—even worse— dug them up just for fun. When the plants got bigger, I would often wake up to see deer chomping on full tomato plants, sometimes tasting and discarding the actual tomatoes, because the stalk itself was more interesting to them. It was a truly unstable relationship—me and this garden. 

When my plants were really starting to take off, squirrels, birds and deer be damned, I had a friend over who is a much more experienced gardener. She didn’t seem fazed by the fruit of my labor, and she began attacking the plants—ripping off perfectly good looking stems and flowers and casting them to the side. I stood there motionless, in shock. “You want to get rid of the excess, in order to bring the most energy into the central stem here,” she pointed. I took some deep breaths and tried to trust the process. 

What felt like a murderous act to a novice gardener is actually simply called pruning. In Hebrew, the word for this action is zamar, to nip, cut away, prune. It shares a root with the word zamir, song. 

Rebbe Nachman teaches on the connection between the two when it comes up in Genesis. Jacob and his sons go to Joseph with gifts—balsam, honey, gums, resins, pistachios and almonds—also called Zimrot, the “choice” products of the land, also known as the products of proper pruning. 

Nachman teaches, “Da! Know! when our forefather Yaakov sent his sons, the ten tribes, to Yosef, he sent with them a melody (Zemer) of the Land of Israel.” 

He then goes into a teaching more well known, 

“Each and every shepherd has his own special melody, according to the grasses and specific location where he is grazing…And this is the concept of [what is said in Shir haShirim,]“The first blossoms have appeared in the Land, the time of ZaMiR (singing or pruning) has arrived” (Song of Songs 2:12).” 

At the conclusion of this teaching, Nachman says, “This is the essence of melody—gathering and selecting the good ruach…” 

In a sense, Rebbe Nachman is saying, singing is the pruning of the soul–a way of clearing away what is not needed in order to strengthen the central channel, gathering the energy and concentrating it towards what is good, holy and beautiful. 

There have been many times in my life where the act of singing has felt not only strengthening, but life saving. After intense trauma or pain, when the world or my world feels shattered, the act of lifting my voice in song, and particularly with other people, has cleared away unnecessary and even painful thoughts, making room for something good. Something nameless. Something deeply holy and real. This pruning has allowed that central stem of my soul to be strengthened. 

On this holiday of Shavuot, as we consider what bikkurim, what first fruits we have to offer the Divine, let us first think about the pruning that was needed or needs to be done in order to strengthen the central stem. In what ways is our energy scattered, being pulled in too many directions? Here at PSJC, I feel this sacred action of song most strongly on High Holidays when every seat is full, people pouring out over the balcony, and mouths are open in song led by our cantor Judy Ribnick. These moments really capture Rebbe Nachman’s idea–that song cuts right to the soul. Standing up on the bima and looking out at all of you, I can feel my own and our community as a whole’s central stem getting stronger through your voices. Connecting us even deeper to each other, to the Divine and acting as an offering to a world in so much pain. 

A question I get asked a lot towards the end of Tishrei is: How can we bring that same energy into the sanctuary the rest of the year? My honest answer is, we can’t. There is something intangible and holy that is accessible only on these special days of the year–a certain portal that opens to the beyond that we can’t reach on other days. But, perhaps we can find ways of tending to our central stem in other ways, making our tefillah in this sanctuary a little bit closer to the peak experience of Yamim Noraim. 

I want to invite you all, in a moment, to do an experiment with me for the Musaf amidah, and stand in the center of the sanctuary. Moving our bodies as a way of physically demonstrating this act of pruning–of gathering our energy towards the center and strengthening one another with our voices. I know it is no small ask, especially post-COVID, to leave our makom kavua, our established space, but perhaps through moving physically we can strengthen the stem that connects us to one another and to the Divine, letting our community and our song be an offering. If, after trying this today, it speaks to you, I invite us to make this a regular practice—reducing the amount we are physically scattered around the sanctuary and filling this middle space with song. 

Over the summer, I’ll be teaching a series on prayer, song and prayer leadership, gently stretching us to consider what else we might be able to prune in order to strengthen the central stem, the beating heart that is the core of our prayers. 

On this day of Shavuot, may we be blessed with the courage to do the pruning necessary to strengthen what is really essential in order to harvest the most beautiful fruits and offer them up to the Divine and to each other. I invite you to join me in the center of the sanctuary now for Musaf. 

Chag Sameach.