Threshold

*adapted Shabbat Shuvah sermon, September 22, 2023

Jewish tradition is quite full of nature metaphors, which is understandable given our ancestors’ close ties to the land and the seasons. Light is a metaphor for the Divine presence, the stars represent the future generations of Abraham, and the mountain climb stands for our life-long discovery of revelation, wisdom, Torah.

Particularly at this time in our Jewish calendar, there can emerge for us the powerful analogy of labor and birth. At Rosh Hashanah, the birthday of the world, our soul can be created anew, and we stand breathless from the painful pangs of change that open in the hot summer with Tisha B’Av through Elul. As we hope it to be with birth, or the many ways we might welcome a new life to our family circle, there is a great deal of emotional and spiritual preparation. We arrive with wonder that we are here to witness yet another beginning—5784—holding all the growth opportunities and possibilities in our hearts and hands. We stand in a moment in time and acknowledge the hard work that it takes to make our way forward.

But how do we know we’ve arrived at the other side? Yes, it is now officially 5784, and yet, have we really crossed over the threshold? Is the summit of our physical and spiritual efforts ever attainable?

As I wonder about such questions, I think back the two-day climb of Mt.Rainier, 60 miles outside of Seattle (see previous post: https://rabbirumphius.com/2023/09/02/labor/) Arriving at the summit brought a tremendous sense of relief. With tears streaming down my face, I looked out at a great expanse, a snow-filled crown to this active volcano lay before us.  What I held in that moment was pure awe for this mighty giant in the Seattle skyline. There was no conquering Mt.Rainier, no notch to add to my belt. There was only the revelation that the climb had brought me to my knees, while making me stronger.

More than anything, the rope team instilled courage to take each step of that climb. On Monday, on Yom Kippur morning we will read the powerful words of Parashat Nitzavim —”You stand this day all of you before the Eternal your God.”  After years of wandering the desert, after trials which could break the spirit of all who endured them, Moses and the people of Israel pledge to keep the covenant a living and dynamic force. Persisting through the ebb and flow of empires and civilizations, the Jews have journeyed through great challenges.  And we, as we assemble and gather on the holiest of days, remember that we stand with the strength of the greater collective. In rope teams, so to speak: Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem lifnei Adonai Eloheichem.” We affirm these ancient words and cultivate hope. We hydrate our faith.  With these words and with practice, the days of Awe can reach us, just as we are and as we hope to be.

I recently came upon a story shared by Cantor Ellen Dreskin, by William Stimson, writer and Zen master practitioner. Stimson, who lives in Taiwan, entitled the vignette, “How to Move A Tree.”

Early one morning in a park in Taiwan I came across a man who had stopped off on his way home from the market to harness himself to a tree.   For a moment it looked as if he were trying to move the tree to another place, maybe drag it home for his front yard.   I had to laugh at the crazy thought.   That tree wasn’t going to budge.   The man was obviously engaged in some kind of exercise.    Most likely, he brought his harness out every morning to do the same practice.   I once read in a book of eastern philosophy that if you had a fish in a pond and you wanted it to get big and strong you put a stone in the middle of the pond.   The fish would swim around and around the stone trying to get to the other side.   No matter what side of the stone he was on, the other side always beckoned.   And so he kept swimming.   In time, he would be much bigger and stronger than a fish in a pond without a stone in the middle.  

It seems crazy to attempt the impossible, and yet it brings about a strength that can’t be gotten otherwise.   This man will never move the tree; but he will become very strong.   I may or may not become the writer I set out to be in my youth, but the effort has really changed my life and I feel it’s made me a better person.   The fish, no matter what side of the stone he gets to, never reaches the “other” side.   He’s always on the side he’s on.   The other side, though, by being there, eventually makes of him a superior fish.  

A man, a tree, a fish, a stone; a blank page, a writer — no matter how hard we try, there is that which we can never quite reach.   But then one day we find that somehow it has reached us — and recognize, with surprise and astonishment, the other side.

God willing, this coming Tuesday, I will complete chemo with the last infusion, I pray, for my lifetime. Like that bright August morning at a mountain summit, I am brought to my knees, knowing that come what may, the rope is always there in my hands, with some person or some greater Presence reminding me I am not alone.

May the One who Binds our Wounds, the One who Strengthens our Steps, help us find the courage and the strength to make our way with grace and gratitude. And may we find time and again in our laboring breath, that the great expanse of a summit perspective reaches us—deep into our beating hearts, for many seasons to come.