Over the past few months, I have been blessed with the opportunity to teach a series of classes in modern Jewish philosophy to adult Jewish learners in different settings. As we study the modern thinkers, Torah, the rabbis, the 20th century philosophical great thinkers, and the student’s own experience, all draw together to teach new lessons. I am always amazed at the philosophers (past and present) I find in the room with me. As we think about revelation, the nature of God, the role of mitzvot, and perspectives on chosenness, I am always amazed at the thirst and depth of these wonderful conversations between these adult learners and our spiritual and philosophical ancestors! And, each time I teach this, I am also conscious that the questions of God’s role in evil and suffering is, for some, a fundamental principle of faith.
True, these conversations are set against the backdrop of a post 9/11-world and even in the aftermath of the Tsunami in Asia. Those events certainly highlight the questions, doubts, and wonder of God’s role in suffering. But, is not our relationship with God based on so much more than just what happens when tragedy befalls us – on why the evil prosper and the righteous suffer? Is not our understanding of God also based on finding God in the ordinary, on the understanding of revelation, on the daily observance of mitzvot?
In his commentary on Job, Ramban teaches us that it is precisely on this very question that the foundation of Torah rests and the root of faith can be found. After all, haven’t we all had some moment (s) in our life – the death of a loved one, an illness, divorce, the end of a relationship, abuse, the loss of a job, a financial woe, or other loss or tragedy - when we were left wondering how to find the hand of God present when what we really feel is the abandonment, alienation, and absence of the goodness, mercy and power we expect from God? Have we not all had moments when we struggle with how to see God when it feels like God may have turned God’s back on us?
This struggle, however, is not a new one stirred by the events of last year or even of last century, but is really as old as Torah itself. In this week’s Torah portion, it is God who tells us: “Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back; but My face must not be seen.” After all they have been through - the trials and tribulations leading up to the giving of the Torah, the building of the Golden Calf, Moses shattering the first set of the tablets, the tribes having just killed 3000 people as they struggle to realign themselves with God - now God says - I will turn my back on you and you will not see my presence?
So, if God admits that there are moments when God will turn God’s back on people, is it not understandable that people might react to God’s turning away? I cannot help but think about the feeling we are left with when someone we care about turns his or her back on us. Inevitably, there is anger, hurt, pain, doubt, and a sense of abandonment. And, sometimes, even an instinct to be the one to abandon. Yet, we know that the ties that bind us to those dearest to us often nurse us to re-establish contact and to rebuild the relationship with new understandings and interactions while also struggling to understand how that person might be capable of turning away and inflicting pain and hurt.
The rabbis of the Talmud recognized this as the same type of binding that ties us to God even as it seems that God turns away. In a very powerful visual image, the Talmud in the Tractate Berachot sees the verse from our Torah portion as part of a dialogue between Moses and God. Wondering how it is that some people suffer in the world while others prosper regardless of righteous or evil behaviors, Moses asks God for an explanation. He asks: God, how is it that some righteous people prosper and some righteous people suffer? And, how is it that some evil people suffer and some evil people prosper? God’s response, says the Talmud, is our verse – God turns God’s back and Moses sees the back of God’s head. What, then is it that the Talmud says Moses sees? The knot of God’s tefillin - the very symbol through which we Jews and God bind ourselves to one another each and every day in a symbolic marriage. In the moment of greatest struggle to understand God’s place in the world, the Talmud invokes the image of greatest intimacy and connection. What, then, do we derive from the fact that God, like Moses, remains dressed not in the garb of separation, but in the garb of unity?
It is always difficult to reconcile the pain and anger of hurt caused by a loved one. At the same time, if there is reconciliation to be found, it can only come to be rooted in the depths of love and commitment that exists in the relationship. The deeper the emotional connection, the greater chance there is for hurt and pain. Likewise, the deeper the emotional connection, the more there is to try to reconcile and recapture. When the impact of tragedy that befalls us is the sum total of our contemplation of, or relationship to God, it is easy to understand how that experience can sever the relationship. And, when we invite God into our everyday lives and nurture that relationship, we can better see the ties of connection and unity even in the moments of challenge.
May each of us find ways to engage with God in a deep and meaningful relationship of contemplation, prayer, thought and action – each and every day. And, I pray that doing so binds each of us and all of us a bit tighter so that we, like Moses, can see the knot in God’s tefillin, even as we feel that God has turned God’s back on us.
Shabbat Shalom.