May 26th: Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
Jewish Tradition teaches that our relationship with God is filled with love—with ahavah. God’s love for us is described in many places in the Bible, and we pray about it in both the morning and the evening services (Ahavah Rabbah and Ahavat Olam). This imperative to love God is something we are supposed to consider every single day—“when we sit in our houses and when we walk by the way, when we lie down and when we rise up.” (Deuteronomy 6.7) Tradition has even imagined a kind of “soap opera” about our love. Though the Biblical Song of Songs speaks of a human love triangle—with a peasant maiden being wooed by both a king and a peasant lad, our mystics treat it as an allegory in which the maiden is Israel, and we are caught between our attraction to both the king (God) and the peasant lad (pagan religions). When the Biblical poet muses, “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine, as we luxuriate among the roses,” our mystics see it as love talk between God and Israel. When the king asks, “Who is this coming up from the desert, all perfumed with myrrh and frankincense?”, the mystics see it as God welcoming Israel, newly rescued from Egypt, as we enter our Chuppah at Mount Sinai. And, when God declares, “O, you have captured my heart, My own, My bride,” it means that God is deeply in love with us.
The drama in Song of Songs includes attraction and devotion, doubt and frustration, estrangement and then loving reconciliation, and our mystics see these human emotions as reflections of the ups and downs of spirituality. Sometimes we feel very close to God and Jewish ways, and sometimes we feel less close. Sometimes there is passion, and sometimes there is distance. As we go through life, we find our religious sensibilities waxing and waning, and evolving.
If we were to sing a love song to God, the sentiments could go in a number of directions. We could love intensely as in the Song of Songs: “Dodi li, va’ani lo ha’ro’eh, bashoshanim. / I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine, as we luxuriate among the roses?” Or we could choose a song like this one penned by Willie Nelson: “Maybe I didn’t love you quite as often as I could have. Maybe I didn’t treat you, quite as good as I should have, If I made you feel, oh, second best, Girl, I’m sorry I was blind. But you were always on my mind. You were always on my mind.” You were always on my mind, but…
In every loving relationship, there are times when guilt enters the dynamic. Though we may feel a deep devotion to God, to Judaism, and to Jewish ways, we often find ourselves pulled in other directions. With the demands of jobs, families, friends, and social and civic obligations, we may often neglect our religion and find ourselves worried that we are inadequately Jewish. Often this guilt hits us when we are in religious situations: a holiday, a Bar/Bat Mitzvah, running into relatives: Are we being Jewish enough, or not?
We Jews have an uncanny ability to feel guilt, but sometimes it may not be the correct response. What, among our religious decisions, are the proper grounds for guilt?
Reform Judaism teaches that each of us has the right to negotiate our own covenant with God, determining what “dosage” of God/Judaism is right for our souls. If keeping kosher helps you in your sense of holiness, wonderful. If it does not, then there should be no guilt in not keeping kosher. If prayer and synagogue or Torah study are helpful to your relationship with the Divine, wonderful. But, if they do not help your soul, then you have the right to determine for yourself the best way to feed your Jewishness. This is not a matter of guilt for deviating from the prescribed way, but rather a matter of using your God-given autonomy to craft your own life. The only time guilt is appropriate is when we fall short of our own standards or expectations—when we fail to nurture our own souls.
If we are happy with our freely chosen dosage of God and Judaism, then we should feel no guilt. We and God are good. If, on the other hand, we feel that our dosage is not nurturing or developing our souls, then we should endeavor to make changes. Guilt is only useful if it spurs us to reflection and a possible re-ordering of our priorities.
Our Tradition teaches us that God loves each one of us individually and personally—that God created and is interested in each one of us. Though much of Judaism involves relating to God as a community, our individual relationships are also of extreme importance. God cares about us and wants each one of us to take care of our souls. We should think of tending to our religious sensibilities as self-care and recall Hillel’s ancient advice: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me…and if not now, when?” (Avot 1.14)
Whether close or distant, whether passionate or more calm, each of us has a relationship with God. How much closeness is good? How much is too much? How much God-consciousness do our souls crave? What kinds of Jewishness will be helpful? Like all important relationships, the love and obligation we feel in regard to God and Judaism need to be managed and cultivated and appreciated.
When and if we feel guilt, we should try to understand what lies beneath. Is it a sense of failure, or is it simply the awareness of different choices? Or, is it a sense of yearning for “more God?” Is it a matter of clarifying our principles, or is it time to re-evaluate our life choices and make changes for the better? During our Festival of Shavuot, when we remember and celebrate the wonder of Mount Sinai, let us remember that the thunder of God’s revelation vibrates individually and personally for every Jew. What does it say to you? How best should you craft your response?