Lifted Up

*sermon for Shabbat Be’ha’alotecha, delivered June 9th, 2023

On this Shabbat, as we so often do, I want to begin with gratitude.

Since I shared with you at the end of March that I am undergoing breast cancer treatment, my family has been held with such loving care. The notes, the delicious meals and offers to help with the kids and the dog, the space for healing and the ongoing compassion—each gesture makes such a difference. Thank you.

I am hopeful that, as summer continues, I will work as I am able in a part-time capacity. My ability to respond and be present will be determined by the ebb and flow of chemo. I want to offer special thanks to the exceptional Temple clergy, staff and lay leaders for their support–what a blessing to be part of such a team that works together to make Temple the sacred heartbeat of so many lives.

And I am grateful for Torah, this precious gift we received just two weeks ago on Shavuot, the holiday marking the moment, and ongoing moments, of receiving Torah at Mt.Sinai. Through the lens of Torah, we can find meaning as we walk the narrow path of fear. Through the turning of pages and time, we can feel held by a greater tapestry, a majestic and awesome force, woven by our ancestors and now in our hands to carry forth.

And through everyday living, we can discover Torah anew in the smaller, ordinary occurrences. It is so comforting to know that the smell of lavender awakens calm, that the light of the sun on my face tingles my skin, that a song about sister’s rising with courage can open a flood of tears. Strength accompanies spiritual exhaustion when circles of care and prayer remind is that we are not alone. This is the gift of Torah that can keep us steady and lift us up.

Speaking of lifting up, Parashat Be’ha’alotecha begins with instructions for the ritual of lighting the seven lights of the menorah in the Tabernacle. The verb describing the actual act of lighting is be’ha’alotecha, the name of this portion, which we can translate as “to lift, to ascend, to raise up.” The opening verse reads: “When you raise up the lamps, let the seven lamps give light at the front of the lampstand.”

I think most of us refer to the lighting of candles as l’hadlik ner, which we did this evening at the start of the service, to kindle lights of Shabbat or holidays.

Why in this week’s Torah portion do we say raise up the lamps?

What makes the lighting in this portion distinct?

Well, for one, if I were to light the menorah in Stern Chapel, I would need to ascend a ladder to reach the candles. The ascending of the light describes the work of raising oneself up to reach the lamps of the menorah. The specific language used in our Torah portion is a reminder that the details, the logistics and building blocks of our work, that enable our individual and collective lives to function, and hopefully flourish, can be holy.

It reminds me of a favorite Marge Piercy poem, entitled To Be of Use:

The people I love the best

jump into work head first

without dallying in the shallows

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,

the black sleek heads of seals

bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,

who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Greek amphoras for wine or oil,

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums

but you know they were made to be used.

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

I have a new appreciation for the logistics that define medical care, the layered details attended to by nurses and surgeons, PT specialists and oncologists. I am lifted to the hope of greater health and healing because I have insurance, and an excellent team helping guide me with each step. Everyone deserves access to such care, to ease of logistical support. We need ladders to climb and matches set on the table, teams of priests and poets, doctors and drivers, all lifting up the light through “work that is real.”

However, we know the language of Beha’alotcha reflects something in addition to logistics, as we aspire to make our spiritual life expand beyond nuts and bolts, wicks and matches.  As we say in Psalm 18:29: “It is You who light up my light; the Lord, who lights up my darkness.” The power of rituals and prayers, lighting the menorah lamps, caring for those in need, studying Torah on a Shabbat morning—all of this and so much more—are reminders of our partnership with a God who can illuminate our days.

I have experienced more personally over these past few months the power of prayers as a source of healing. What light can emerge within the darkness of pain and fear. I’ve been participating in Shabbat services online and as I offer names of those who are ill, I have heard my own blend into the sacred cacophony before we sing Mi Sheberach. Our singing bridges a connection, near and far, in heart and hope.

It seems a bit serendipitous that this week’s Torah portion includes Miriam’s illness and the prayer offered by Moses, El Na Rafanah Lah. “Please God Heal her.” I imagine Moses offers this brief prayer as a kind of primal cry, with a sense of overwhelm, reaching out beyond himself to the Healer of the Broken Hearted. Miriam is the healer, the one who holds nourishing waters for her people, the dancer and singer on the shores of the sea. And yet, even she can be touched by fragility, and even she can be held by the prayers of her people, lifted up to discover renewed courage. Lifted up like the flames dancing in the lamps of the menorah. Lifted up like the pillar of cloud and fire that manifests each day and night as God leads the people through the wilderness.

As we make our way through the Book of Numbers, called in Hebrew “Bamidbar” —“in the wilderness”, I have new appreciation for what it must have been like for our ancestors to discover the light of such rituals and the wisdom of Torah.  We know there were moments the Israelites looked back longingly on the past before they met the desert expanse, and yet, time and again, they learn that if they keep working towards a greater good, if they keep trying to cultivate a steady faith, if they keep believing that the light of hope can pierce through the darkest days and lift their sights, it is possible to not only survive, but to thrive. Despite how harsh the wilderness can be, it is in many ways like a cocoon, a place of tremendous transformation where the Israelites wrestle with fundamental truths as they prepare to spread their wings of freedom.

Their journey is ours.

In its essence, at its root, midbar is the stuff, the things, the words, the morrow of life. Wilderness may be disorienting and foreign, but I believe it’s also made of all that we need to become, as the revelations of life keep unfolding. Through pain and fear, may we make our way to health and light, to dance anew. Shabbat Shalom!