In one of my favorite books, The Fifth Mountain, the novelist Paulo Coelho imagines the life of Eliyahu HaNavi between when he flees Achav and when he returns to face the priests of Ba’al. Coelho’s Eliyahu is in deep pain, wanting to both to have a relationship with God, and to renounce God and His power for causing so much suffering in his life.
On Yom Kippur, he leaves his city and goes out to the mountains. There, he tells God, “O Lord, today is the day of Atonement and my list of sins against Thee is long... I have been weak, for I have forgotten my strength. I have been compassionate when I should have been firm. I have failed to choose, for fear of making the wrong decision. I have yielded before the time to do so, and I have blasphemed when I should have given thanks.
“Still, Lord, I have also a long list of Thy sins against me. Thou hast made me suffer more than was just, by taking from this world the one that I loved. Thou hast destroyed the city that received me, Thou hadst confounded my search, Thy harshness almost made me forget the love I have for Thee. For all that time I have struggled with Thee, yet Thou dost not accept the worthiness of my combat.”
“If we compare the list of my sins with the list of Thy sins, Thou shalt see that Thou art in my debt. But, as today is the Day of Atonement, give me Thy forgiveness and I shall forgive Thee, so that we may go on walking at each other’s side.”
Eliyahu’s words are shocking in their audacity. Telling God that God is in his debt, and not the other way around?! And yet... if we are honest with ourselves, there is probably truth in Eliyahu’s words, and in his feelings, for many of us. We have sinned, but we have also been wronged.
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This has been on my mind because I have not been in the mood for Elul.
Obviously, one cannot choose to be in the mood for a month. But after a challenging summer, I have (somewhat shamefully) been more inclined to count the grievances that the universe has inflicted on me of late than the ways that I want to grow and change into a better version of myself. Instead of doing teshuva, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and wonder if my luck will ever get better. (My husband, thinking my luck inevitably had to improve at some point, even had me buy a lottery ticket. Perhaps not surprisingly, I didn’t win.)
The honest fact of the matter is that I’ve been in a Jewish slump for a while. I am privileged, I know, but also, I am tired. The last four years have worn on me. They have brought infertility, Covid, having a baby without significant support due to Covid, job instability, and now, more pregnancy loses. If you think of the people who tell pollsters that they are “spiritual but not religious,” I’ve been feeling sort of like the opposite—observant but not spiritual. I still keep Shabbat and kashrut. I dress modestly and cover my hair. I (with great joy) learn and teach Torah. I daven and say blessings before and after I eat. But if you asked me about my relationship with God, I would have to honestly say that these days, it swings from alienation to anger to absence. I observe, but I don’t feel. It’s discouraging, if perhaps more common than many people would admit, especially at my life stage, but it’s not what I want, for myself or for my family. I want my two year old daughter, E, to grow up with a Judaism of joy and meaning, not one of rote action and box-checking obligation.
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I’ve been taking E to shul most shabbatot for two years, but only recently has she started showing any awareness of what’s happening while she’s there. (Other than the cookies at kiddush. She has long known about the cookies.) She’s very attuned to call and response right now, and so she frequently yells, “Amen!” after she hears others do so. She has, more than once, yelled “yay!” and clapped her hands after the community finishes putting the Torah away. She approaches Judaism as she approaches life, with joy and excitement, the vibrancy that I’ve been worried that I’m missing.
A few weeks ago, on Shabbat afternoon, my husband was out speaking at a seudah shlishit, so I was playing with E, watching her stack and and unstack her magnatiles. Suddenly, she looked up at me and said, “Mommy! Amen!”
I said, “E, do you want to make a bracha?”
“Bracha! More bracha!”
So I started making brachot. I made the bracha over learning Torah, and the one that thanks God for making us Jewish. I made the one for making us according to how God wants us to be.
After each one, the same response. “Amen! Yay! More bracha!”
Finally, I realized there was one I hadn’t made yet, but should have:
ברוך אתה ה׳ אלוקינו מלך העולם הטוב והמטיב
Blessed are You, Hashem our God, Ruler of the universe, Who is good and does good.
“Amen! Yaaaay!”
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As I told my students this morning, there’s something strange about being the mother of an optimist, while being a pessimist. I hope more than anything that E will keep thrill that she experiences at life’s smallest pleasures, like a piece of watermelon or finding more stickers or saying amen to a bracha. Obviously, some of the shine will fade, but fundamentally, more than I want E to be like me, I want to learn to be more like my daughter—someone who sees every moment as the opportunity to make a bracha, to give thanks for the things that we have but that we might forget to appreciate. Honestly, I’m there yet. But as Elul’s end comes closer and closer, I am trying.
Baruch hatov vehametiv. Blessed is the One Who is good and does good. May it be so for us, and may we merit to see that goodness when it comes.
Amen.