Standing Between the
Past and the Future
D’var Torah for
Parashat Ha’azinu
By Rabbi Boaz D.
Heilman
Thursday morning, right after Yom Kippur, a friend remarked
to me how all day she felt as though it were Monday. I don’t think she was alone in that feeling. In American—whether your holy day is Friday,
Shabbat or Sunday—Monday is the day after.
It’s the day you get back to the daily routines, to the regular
schedules, to everyday chores and responsibilities. Whatever day the holiday falls on, the next
day is bound to feel like Monday.
For observant Jews, however, the “day after” doesn’t occur
until after the High Holy Days. That
isn’t only because of the many extra mitzvot—holy
commandments—that we have to fulfill during this period of nearly three weeks. It isn’t even only because of the extra
shopping and cooking, the guests, or the myriad other arrangements and details
that the Holy Days entail.
Partially, it’s because of the many times this season that
we have to withdraw from ordinary affairs.
Whether the holidays fall on the weekend of during the work, they throw off
our schedule completely.
Yet it’s also more.
Everything about the High Holy Days puts you in a totally different
mindset. Spending so much time with our
community, praying or going through the other rituals that the holidays entail cause
a disconnect from our worldly business and matters. Our thoughts are directed to a totally
different end; and, moreover, the process of reaching that goal is completely different
from the way we do things on all other days.
The Torah readings for the holidays are instrumental in
making us feel that way, as they put us in a frame of mind that is timeless,
that leaves us suspended between then, now, and what will be.
The theme is introduced in the portion called Nitzavim (Deuteronomy 29:9-30:20), which
as part of the cyclical reading is read a couple of weeks before Rosh
Hashanah—but parts of which are also chanted on the morning of Yom Kippur. This portion reminds us that we are all
standing about to enter the Covenant with God—both those who are immediately
present and those who have not yet been born.
Nitzavim teaches us about
infinity, asking us to look far into the future and find Eternity there. Ahead are not randomness and chaos, but rather
a continuous, evolving relationship between our People and God.
This week’s Torah portion forms a sort of bookend to Nitzavim. The penultimate portion of the whole Torah, Ha’azinu (Deut. 32:1-43) has us look not
only toward the future, but also to the past.
This portion represents still another closure. Set nearly at the time of Moses’s death, Ha’azinu is the last call that Moses
issues to the Israelites to follow in God’s ways. Written in the form of poetry, this exalted
poem parallels the first Song of Moses—sung after the Red Sea closed on the
Egyptians pursuing the Israelites, forty years earlier, when the people found
themselves free for the first time in their national history. These two songs of praise and admonition are
like bookends, marking off the beginning and the end of Moses’ relationship
with Israel.
But unlike the Song of the Sea, this last song isn’t just
one of exaltation. As Moses looks ahead
and sees the many times that Israel will fail to follow God, he foresees the
punishment that will be meted out.
However, he looks even further and sees also the ultimate Redemption,
when God will take us back in mercy and compassion.
Moses knows that his threats have worked. He sees the people frightened and discouraged
by the tasks God has set before them.
It’s a scary thing to measure our worth by God’s yardstick. Who of us can measure up against such
impossible standards? And so Moses also
invokes the past: “Remember the days of
old; consider the years of many generations; ask your father, and he will show
you, your elders, and they will tell you” (Deut. 32:7).
Recalling the past is reassuring. The “days of old” are “the good ol’ days,”
and as we reflect and reminisce, we are reminded of warmth, kindness and
compassion, of a time when people around us were kindhearted and loving. The past isn’t only there to teach us lessons
for the future—it’s there to give us comfort, to reassure us, to remind us of
love and hope.
Moving from future to past leaves us suspended in time. Where exactly in that span we call Eternity do
we belong? Where do we find ourselves
now? And moreover, what purpose does the
suspension of time serve?
Its goal is to have us stop midtrack, to lay down our
calendar, to leave our watches at home. The business at hand, that which we
have to consider at this season, is not with our accounting books, but rather
with an accounting for our life. The
values against which we measure our worth are not your everyday rates. The only way we can accomplish this is by deep
reflection and consideration of that which is timeless and eternal.
At the end of this remarkable process, we are left feeling
both exhausted and exalted. We are
re-energized, ready to face the tasks ahead of us—not through fear and
trepidation but rather through faith and hope.
For, despite the common image of the Deuteronomic
God—raging, overbearing and zealous—what Moses offers us by recalling the past
is a softer image, a more merciful and compassionate God. And that is, after all, the purpose of Tradition—to
offer us not only wisdom, but also warmth.
The glimpse we receive of Eternity at this season is one
that encourages even as it presses us ever onward toward the goal of Tikkun
Olam (the repair of the world). When we
re-emerge from the High Holy Days into the time-bound span of our own lifetime,
we discover, to our surprise, how much stronger and more capable we are,
despite the fast, despite the momentary weakness. We find ourselves ready to begin yet again,
with ever stronger conviction and heartier commitment to the task at hand.
May we continue with faith and hope along the path our
People have been on for thousands of years, toward a better future for all
generations.
©
2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
