Twenty
years ago, my teacher Rabbi Margaret Wenig wrote the following in a High Holy
day sermon:
Imagine now that God is a woman, and she is
growing older. . . .
She moves more slowly now. She cannot stand
erect. Her hair is thinning. Her face is lined. . . . Sometimes she has to
strain to hear. Yet she remembers everything.
On Rosh Hashanah, the anniversary of the day on
which she gave us birth, God sits down at her kitchen table, opens the Book of
Memories, and begins turning pages; and God remembers.
“There is the world when it was new and my
children when they were young. . .”.. . She marvels at our accomplishments: the
music we have written, the gardens we have planted, the skyscrapers we have
built. . . .
“They can now fly faster than the winds I send,”
she says to herself, . . .
“They even visit the moon which I set in the
sky. . . .”
Then there are pages she would rather skip.
Things she wishes she could forget. But they stare her in the face, and she
cannot help but remember: her children spoiling the home she created for us,
brothers putting each other in chains. . . .
And God remembers the many times she sat by a bedside weeping that she
could not halt the process she herself set in motion.[1]
During the 10 Days of Awe that
begin tonight, we talk of “teshuvah,” of turning back to God. But who is this
God that I’m returning to? Many of us don’t think about God so much during the
course of the year. And then we sit synagogue for hour upon hour over these
High Holy Days, faced with this prospect of talking to God and asking God for
forgiveness. As we turn the pages of the prayer book, we encounter names of God
and ways that we are supposed to think about God. For some of us, the
traditional names and images work to reconnect to the Divine. But for others,
the language of this book gets in the way.
Particularly on these most holy
days, God is at God’s most male! The prayerbook uses names such as “Av
ha-rachamim,” “merciful father”; “Ha-melech ha-kadosh,” “the holy King,” and of
course, the prayer we will chant in a few minutes - “Avinu Malkeinu,” “our
Father, our King.” Even though most of our prayerbooks now have gender-neutral
English translations, we can’t escape this image of God as a wise old king,
seated on a throne. And then there are divine characteristics that aren’t
necessarily male, but which describe how God acts in the world: as judge,
dealer of life and death, and an entity that would ask his servant Abraham to
sacrifice his son.
For some of us, these
traditional images work to connect us to a presence of power in the universe.
After all, Rosh Hashanah is traditionally the day when we recognize God as the
ultimate ruler, capable of forgiving our greatest sins. Even for me, a feminist who generally resists
male names for God, the phrase “Avinu Malkeinu,” “Our Father, our King,” is
potent. The name, “King” evokes humility in me as I contemplate the enormity of
the universe. And thankfully for me, the name, “father,” evokes love and
compassion – a big hug and a listening ear as I share my shortcomings and my
yearnings.
But as we begin these days of
prayer, I want to offer some alternate paths towards connecting to God. Because
for some of us, the name “father” does not evoke those positive feelings of
connection, and the name “king” is too foreign. Once we open the door to other
names and images, we might find ourselves connecting in surprising, perhaps
even deeper ways.
Twenty years ago, when Rabbi
Wenig wrote her sermon, “God is a Woman, and she is growing Older,” it was
groundbreaking. No one had ever captured the experience of the Divine in quite this
way. Even today, when Wenig asks us to imagine Rosh Hashanah as sitting at the
kitchen table with God, our Mother, reviewing the year together, she opens up
an experience of spirituality for us that the traditional prayerbook doesn’t
begin to touch.
This year I want us all to be
able to find names and routes to an experience of God, that moves us. Perhaps
then we can use these many hours of sitting in shul to get curious about God,
to explore and experiment.
Every year I spend a lot of
time talking about God with our 10th graders in Confirmation class.
At the end of the year, they each write a piece about their understanding of
God. Tonight I want to share some of these young people’s words from the past
few years. Some of these folks have graduated high school while others are
still working in our religious school as teacher’s aides. (I hope some of them
are here tonight!)
Collin Schuster wrote,
When I was first presented with this question
[of God]. . . I saw a stereotypical old man with a white beard,
having a lot of power and making a lot of important decisions. . . .
But beyond this image, I never actually considered who God was, in my life, and
in this amazing world we live in. Even after learning about many
different philosophers’ views,. . . my
own understanding of God seemed foggy, until Rabbi Goldenberg presented a new
idea to us [from the modern thinker Martin Buber], the idea that God is present
in [human] relationships.
Mr. Buber [introduces the concept of an “I
and Thou” relationship] in which you experience somebody, relate to their
being, and become aware of that person as a [full] human being. When
you care about someone and form this kind of “I-thou” relationship, you have
the chance to experience God’s presence.
Derek Arbige built on this
concept, teaching that:
I-thou relationships are the special bonds that
you share with the important people in your life. You care about them and
their feelings even when they aren’t around. G-d can be experienced
through the special connection that you share with others.
Martin Buber’s concept of “I
and Thou” often speaks beautifully to our youth. At this time in their lives, relationships
are everything, whether they be with friends or girl or boyfriends, or with their
parents. They can see how a mutual relationship often contains an element of
the transcendent. Through relationships with people, they feel connected to something
bigger than themselves, and when the relationship is strained, that connection
to God becomes strained as well.
During these holidays, it can
be helpful for all of us to reflect on the Divine energy between ourselves and
others. How might I nurture the bond between myself and those whom I love?
Where has that connection broken down during this past year, and what can I do
to rebuild? How might I see the experience of apology and forgiveness with others
as a way of “returning to God” and helping Divine blessing flow more fully
through my life?
Another student, Dana Foley,
spoke of another path to God:
There have been many times in my life where I
see something in nature that is just amazing, whether it’s a picture or something
I see with my own eyes.. . .This [leads] me to the idea that I want to pass on
to you. God inspires awe. In too many ways to name, God inspires awe.
For many of us, it is difficult
to relate to the idea of a personal God – an entity that I can talk to and who
hears what I have to say. But awe often comes more easily, especially when we
are surrounded by nature or find ourselves moved by a work of art or music.
When my family and I visited
the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone national park this summer, we couldn’t escape moments
of awe. They occurred at every turn –from watching how the heat of the earth
causes water to bubble and spout to witnessing a mother moose and her young, to
experiencing the majesty of tall craggy mountains rising up at your feet. In
synagogue we evoke that sense of awe with music –from humble Hebrew chants to
the rich 4-part harmonies of our choir. These too are pathways to God.
An approach to God called
“Process Theology” describes God as the power of Being itself unfolding –the
power of Being as it is becoming. When Moses asks for a name for the divinity
calling to him out of the Burning Bush, God shares the name, “Ehyeh asher
Ehyeh,” or “I will be what I will be.” The words of our liturgy describe God as
That which renews each and every day – every moment – the work of creation. In this
approach, God is the process of the unfolding in all its dazzling complexity.[2]
During these holidays, allow
yourself to experience God in this way which doesn’t involve words. Close your
prayerbook and notice the beauty of this sanctuary, the life in the people
surrounding you. Allow your heart and body to pray, resonating with the music as
it washes over you. Teshuva or return can
be this experience of getting in touch with how small you are and how amazing
it is that this universe is continually unfolding and that you are a part of
that process.
One of last year’s Confirmation
students, Danni Roman, traced how her concept of God had changed and evolved
over her life: from a wise old man to a powerful eagle, from her best friend
that she could talk to and share everything with, to the energy motivating acts
of love and kindness, to the awe at the small miracles of everyday life.
She ended her speech, saying:
“What I have realized is that God might be a combination of all those things.
He can be a teacher, a protector, and a friend. He can be inside me while
surrounding me.” Danni concluded that the most beautiful part of Judaism is
that, “We are raised to question and interpret things for ourselves. We are
raised to wrestle with God.”
Tonight, and in the 10 days of
intense prayer to come, we can allow ourselves to connect to God in many
different ways. As the process of unfolding, as the energy between ourselves
and others, as the experience of awe. And that exploration can continue beyond
these holy days.
Perhaps we can even see that
idea of “teshuva” or return to God as a commitment to make some space in our
lives to be God wrestlers, whether that means struggling or discovering,
praying or singing, sitting in meditation, or taking in nature or a text. Maybe
this year we can make a commitment to visit the spiritual side of ourselves a
little more regularly. Who knows what doors might open within us or between us.
Who knows what new names and paths towards God might emerge.
For tonight we can start by
imagining, as Rabbi Wenig does, that instead of standing before the throne of a
king, we are seated at a kitchen table, chatting with our aging mother over a
cup of tea. “In a single glance, she sees our birth and our death and all the
years in between.”
The words tumble out:
“I’m
sorry that I. . .”
“That’s all right, I forgive you.”
[she says.]
“I
didn’t mean to. . .”
“I know that, I do.”
“I was
so angry that you hit me.”
“I’m sorry that I ever hurt you. But
you wouldn’t listen to me.”
“You’re
right. I wouldn’t listen. I should have. I know that now, but at the time I had
to do it my way.”
“I know,” she nods. “I know.”[3]
Perhaps we can imagine, as we
open the ark, that God is right here tonight, turning the pages of her book of
memories. She looks up for a moment. “Come home,” she says to us, “Come home.”
[1]
Rabbi Margaret Moers Wenig, “God is a Woman, and She is Growing Older,” Introduction to Judaism: A Sourcebook, Eds.
Einstein/Kukoff, UAHC Press: New York, 1998, pg. 190.
[2]
Rabbi Toba Spitzer, “Why We Need Process Theology,” CCAR Journal: The Reform Jewish Quarterly, Winter 2012.
[3]
Rabbi Margaret Moers Wenig, “God is a Woman, and She is Growing Older.”
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