Can We Pray a Just World Into Existence? Commentary on Parashat Shofetim and Rosh Chodesh Elul 5784
By Ezra Kiers, Hebrew Seminary Rabbinical Student
Sometimes, being a Jew feels impossible. We are expected to be proud of where we come from, yet not too disconnected from our current circumstances. We must be mindful of and committed to our ancient roots, yet continue looking into the future. We as Jews are a people who straddle multiple lines of identity, intersectionality, and belief, yet we are also a single nation. At least for me, these complexities make wrestling with the current state of the world even more challenging than they already are. The pain, bloodshed, and grief of the past year have made existing as a progressive Jew feel like an uphill battle.
With the new Jewish year fast approaching, we enter the month of Elul, a time which is often dedicated to cheshbon hanefesh (חשבון הנפש, “an accounting of one’s soul”). We reflect on our behaviors and enacted values of the past year and consider the person we’d like to be in the year to come. As stated in Eikhah (איכה, the Book of “Lamentations”) 3:40:
נַחְפְּשָׂה דְרָכֵינוּ וְנַחְקֹרָה וְנָשׁוּבָה עַד־יְהֹוָה
Let us search and examine our ways, and turn back to יהוה. (Translation from Revised JPS Translation.)
In essence, this ancient Jewish practice acknowledges that while we are all flawed and make mistakes, we are all also capable of learning from them, changing our behavior, and moving forward. Only when we take accountability for the wrong we have done and the harm we have caused can we give or receive forgiveness. When we do this, we show ourselves and whatever version of Divinity that we believe in that we see our own value and that of others.
As war continues to wage, both on a global scale and within our own communities, it feels particularly difficult to take this moment for reflection. How can I possibly think about myself when there is innocent blood being shed every moment of every day? How can I consider the person I want to be when this year has shaken—if not broken—my understanding of who I have been, and who I am? With these challenges in mind, I find myself called to a particular verse in Parashat Shofetim that many other Jewish leaders have cited time and time again. Deuteronomy 16:20, as it was taught to me, begins, “צֶדֶק צֶדֶק תִּרְדֹּף” (tzedek tzedek tirdof, “Justice, justice you shall pursue…”) (my translation). While an important and meaningful statement of Jewish values, that is not the entire verse. The rest of Deuteronomy 16:20 reads:
לְמַעַן תִּחְיֶה וְיָרַשְׁתָּ אֶת־הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר־יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ נֹתֵן לָךְ׃
…that you should live and take possession of the land which יהוה your God has given to you. (My translation.)
What does it mean to pursue justice in a homeland of multiple nations, all of whom feel threatened? What might it mean when people on all sides of the political sphere, locally and globally, look at each other’s definitions of “justice” as nothing but the opposite? What do we do when we turn to those who supposedly share our beliefs, yet do not act in a way that we believe is just? And how, for the sake of יהוה and each of our souls, do we begin to bridge those gaps so that this tragedy can even have a chance of ending?
I wish that I had an answer to even one of those questions. The deepest, most optimistic part of my heart hopes that Rosh Chodesh Elul and the impending High Holidays will be enough for Jews everywhere to pray a just world into existence. The realistic part of me knows that this is unlikely, and longs for a tangible way to navigate the confusion, paranoia, anger, and grief of the current moment (as well as the many more painful moments that are likely ahead of us). As devastating news continues to fill my media feeds, I have found some comfort in the following actions, which I offer to whoever may need some ideas.
First, when יהוה feels far away and prayers are hard to muster, I focus on moments of gratitude, especially for the small things that I often take for granted. I woke up today. My body is functioning. I am drinking clean water. I know where my next meal is coming from. My friends, family, and emotional support animals are here if I need them to help calm my anxious thoughts. Sometimes these moments take the form of leaning into traditional liturgy, and sometimes they manifest in a text to a friend I haven’t spoken to in a while, just to tell them I love them. I might hug my cat or grasp my husband’s hand. Just for a moment, to close my eyes and thank the Universe that I’m not alone and that there is still goodness around me, can help reinvigorate my ability to move forward.
Second, I find ways to replace some of the goodness that has been taken. Most recently, this meant giving blood. As I found myself spiraling over the fact that an unimaginable amount of blood has been spilled (and, devastatingly, so much in the name of my people), I decided to give some of my own. Unsurprisingly, the Talmudic sages also had this idea. They Koren-Steinsaltz translation and commentary on “אבדת גופו מניין ת”ל והשבותו לו” in Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 73a, reads:
The Torah teaches that one must return lost property to its rightful owner. But from where is it derived that one must help his neighbor who may suffer the loss of his body or his health? The verse states: And you shall restore it [vahashevoto] to him [lo] (Deuteronomy 22:2), which can also be read as: And you shall restore him [vehashevoto] to him, i.e., saving his body.
Perhaps I can’t single-handedly end wars, free hostages, or dismantle oppressive systems of power, but I can help save a life. Maybe for you, it could mean fostering a stray animal, donating food or money to people in need, or giving up your seat on the bus to someone with a mobility aid. Maybe it’s something entirely different. Whatever it may be, we all can create some good; doing so can start to heal the part of our hearts that’s feeling broken, and that’s not worth nothing.
Third, I remember the words of Rabbi Tarfon, as he said, “It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it,” (Pirkei Avot 2:16; Rabbi Dr. Joshua Kulp’s translation). To me, this means that it is okay to permit myself to do what I have the capacity for, even if that capacity changes day by day. Some days, changing the world means marching in the streets, others perhaps taking a day for self-care so that I can regain the strength to continue the work. It means having compassion for friends and family whose abilities and strengths differ from mine, even when I might interpret them as “not doing enough” under other circumstances. Reminding myself that they are doing their best today, just as much as I am. However we may be taking account of our souls this Elul, we know it’s easier said than done. I enter this month and the days to come with the following hope, prayer, dedication, and soul-wrenching longing:
.עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו הוּא יַעֲשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם וְעַל כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל כָּל־יוֹשְׁבֵי תֵבֵל
May the One who makes peace in high places make peace for us, for all of Israel, and for all who dwell on Earth.
May we each do our small parts to make up that collective Oneness.
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