Sunshine isn’t everything

I certainly appear to be writing more about the intersection of psychology and Torah a lot these days. And, as many who are well-educated in Torah: the Rabbis, the scholars, and the sages, there are infinite lessons to be learned that are applicable to Jew and non-Jew alike. So, I will stick with it for a while and see where that takes me.

Ever heard of the poem, After A While? The last refrain is: That even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure…That you really are strong. And you really do have worth…And you learn and learn… With every good-bye you learn.

There will always be some rain, some cloud, and darkness.  As one Rabbi I recently heard say “wherever you see an earthly war going on, there is a spiritual battle also being waged. Perhaps, again we are being called, what we are seeing, reading, hearing, is a calling to לב pronounced lev. “Lev” means “heart” in Hebrew, and it wasn’t a body part to the Israelites. They had a broader understanding of heart than we do in our modern context. They thought of the heart as the organ that gives physical life and the place where you think and make sense of the world—where you feel emotions and make choices.’ Hearing that, being inspired by sermons, including my own experiences, I thought about the concepts of light and sunshine.

Have you ever wondered in that poem “After All” about sunshine that makes it sounds so simple – seek the light, avoid the darkness, yet in reality, it is hard to internalize? Ever miss a little rain?  How about during a terrible drought? Or, how about a little of the rain even as much as you might love “constant” sunny weather, all the time?  Is that even climatological possible?  What I am finding as a would-be writer and journeyman is that relentless sunshine isn’t always possible and that it doesn’t always make the best conditions for being creative about life’s obstacles, and there appear to be many. As I attempt to write about my journey, I am beginning to see my clouds and storms can be used to fuel my creativity.  This preoccupation of only wanting to seek out the sunlight so it can lift my burdens or brighten my mood seems like something I do not share with a lot of people. Is wanting to only seek happiness what it means to be human?  Then I wonder, perhaps that is not just the correct approach to the weather.  Everyone talks about seeking happiness, I talk about seeking joy. However, it might be an interesting approach to seek faith in the storm as well as in the sunshine. As I seek out my journey, I recognize faith has a lot to do with it.

I hear people say they want to walk in the light of God.  This is an idea set forth by the theologian Barbara Brown Taylor in her book, “Learning to Walk in the Darkness.”  She calls it full-on solar spirituality.  This sunny spirituality, expressed by the idea that God warms us and shines over us constantly.  A spirituality that never leaves us, never abandons us.  This certainty of God’s forgiveness. Who wouldn’t want this full-on solar spirituality to be in God’s light all day, every day. Honestly, in some of my darker moments of sadness or struggle, I admit I seek the light. I believe in the possibility of a better day. The notion of being able to come through and again start fresh. A blueprint ~ seeing our burdens lifted in the light of the Torah.  Is that the intent, not just of Torah, but of faith?

Rabbi’s profess that the Torah is quite straightforward about light. Light is good, darkness is bad. God created light and it was good. God sent the ninth plague of darkness and it was bad.  Light is where we can see and be seen. What I have learned: Jews are called to be a light unto the nation’s. What’s the problem?  It’s seems so simple and with all the emphasis on light; sometimes we forget that our greatest learning can happen in the dark.  Our sages tell us the text might suggest, at first, darkness is only a deficiency, something to overcome, and we know that sometimes we stumble on discoveries in the dark.  We forge relationships in a tunnel and even if there is no visible upside to our period of struggle, at least not right away, I am learning to sit with deep pain without feeling that God has abandoned me.  Sometimes these shadow feelings of loss and confusion and insult or hurt or a sense that God is absent simply does not go away.  No light clears and the loneliness or isolation feels dark.  It feels like more than I can bear.

Recently I heard a pulpit Rabbi tell the story of a conversation she had with grieving widow who had just lost her husband of 50+ years.  She encouraged her to come to services to say Kaddish. Apparently she had not been to Friday night services in a very long time. She happened to come the week of Shabbat Shirah (Sabbath of song), the name given to the Shabbat that includes Parsha Beshalach in the book of Exodus. We just read this parsha a few week’s ago. The Torah reading speaks about the Hebrews who were being chased by the Egyptians. They came across the Red Sea and miraculously were able to cross.  When they reached the other side, as the Torah portion recounts the Children of Israel sang the Song of the sea (Exodus 15:1–18). The Rabbi said it was a particularly energetic, joyous service. At the conclusion of the service, the widow told the Rabbi that she should not have come to the service.  The service really was very joyous, which was good and the woman felt there was no room for her pain. She found no comfort in the sanctuary. A dilemma.

Still curious, the Rabbi thought how does she explain to the woman that she can hold joy and anguish in the same moment?  Then the Rabbi thought about the same service involving the Torah service that discussed a Torah portion, when Moses came down from My. Sinai after the smashing the first set of tablets. The cause – seeing the golden calf. Later the Torah recounts Moses coming down with the second set of tablets that he had etched with God’s help.  His did not realize his face was glowing. His face was so radiant that the Israelites feared coming near him.  Moses had to put on a veil to cover his face. That makes sense, he had just talked directly to God. He experienced an intimate moment with the divine light of the eternal. Then, the story retells in many chapters, the building of the Mishkan.

This amazing, light-filled leader, who knew God with such deep certainty, telling him to build the Mishkan – even Moses could not handle that all by himself.  What did he need ? Moses knew that he could not build the mishkan all by himself. So Moses called for gifts from all the people – people possessing all kinds of gifts, and with all kinds of skills. He singled out one person. Betzalel was called to be the chief architect.  He was endowed with a divine proficiency of every kind of craft. The sages say names in the Bible are not a coincidence, nor are they accidental.   Betzalel means the shadow of God.  Moses might have been the one glowing, but the chief artisan of the Mishkan lived in the shadows, in the dark places.

The Torah gives three words to describe the divine spirit. According to Nicholas Pavlik, how we chance on an idea is itself worthy of much thought, investigation or analysis. Some seemingly appear from nowhere, a spark, from the depths of our subconscious; others arise from studious thought and consideration, an evolution that blends into construction and conduct. Indeed, if we want to develop the idea into a form that we, or others, can use, our mind must go through a three step process that follows the mind’s intellectual division. 

The three words are Chochma, Bina, and Daat. Chochma is the initial flash of insight one associates with the idea as spark. Initial ideas need to be developed and incorporated into the mind before they can become knowledge. Then comes Bina, the gradual development and articulation of an idea or insight. It’s the refinement or working out of an idea. It answers the question, why is this a good idea? Can this idea be rationally explained? Then comes Daat, often translated as “knowledge” but, in fact, mostly dealing more with comprehension and emotion. When an idea has developed fully, beyond its initial flash or spark, its truth or validity worked out or decided upon and it’s in a form that can be comprehended by others, it becomes “knowledge”.  Daat is also the bridge between intellect and emotion, where the idea goes from an abstract thought towards an emotional feeling, that one knows is the truth, or at least a useable theory that one can bond with and that can and will have meaning and application to actions in life.

These words, representing: skill, ability, and knowledge appear to be three synonyms that mean the same thing but the rabbi’s parsed this a little more subtly. Rashi the medieval commentator says Chochma skill is what a person learns from other people to Bina ability, which is the result of one’s own insight and one’s own experience, and daat knowledge is divine inspiration that can suddenly spring up from some unknown source that is beyond us.

In  other words, Betzalah, our shadow man, learned from others, he learned from his own experience, and he learned from God.  Betzalel proves darkness isn’t so simple, it isn’t only bad, or only hard, darkness educates us. It test our resilience.  It helps us to grow. Betzalel, our designer of our sanctuary and our sacred Ark was a figure whose darkness was his gift. It was a prerequisite for his artistry. Then when me recall that the Mishkan was transported under a cloud that God kept a cloud over the tabernacle when we went on our way, we see this stunning partnership. The light of Torah was carried by a figure of darkness under a cloud. It is such a Jewish idea that our light and our darkness need each other. Moses the man who glowed needed Betzalel, the man from the shadows. 

We need the singing of Shabbat Shira with a sobriety of our Kaddish prayer. Sunshine needs the shadows with the light. They provide us with texture, depth, and perspective. With both light and darkness, a sanctuary where pain, loss and doubt coexist with clarity, healing and hope. It is not helpful to pretend that life is always light or that light is always good or that darkness is always bad. Our sacred texts teaches how we might build a Mishkan where community can bring all of their gifts, their light, and their shadows to create a sanctuary where God can dwell amongst us all.

What is Rabbi Buchdahl, who I quote throughout, telling us? She tells about Moses, and Betzalel, about light and darkness. They needed each other. As I remarked early in this essay, perhaps the call is for more lev, more heart, composed of sunshine and showers to complete the task – joy and pain.