I poked my eye this morning, turning over trying to extend my sleep. The flash, a jolt of cream in dark roast coffee jarring me awake, barely dawn.   Dusk deep, the borderline of dark, the fireflies float over the grass whimsically, randomly, playfully, willfully announcing their right to turn on and off on their own time.   Capricious and teasing, testing what is real what constant, fourth of July sparklers proclaiming, nothing is permanent. Not the light, not you nor I.

Sparks of clarity in an obscure universe, meaning is measured in seconds and lives crackle in a well-seasoned pan. You can’t use a cast iron skillet on an electric stove. You need the flame, the gas, the fire, the brightly yellow, orange, shades of blue. Then the eggs sizzle in the fat. The whites brown around the edges. The yellow softly velvet pushing to break down walls, eager to run free. It sticks you know If you let it dry on the plate. Better to mop it up even if a little dribbles on your chin.

The price of freedom is messiness and the gnawing notion of not really knowing very much for certain. I walk up the path, night descends.  Tiny incandescent LEDs tease and teach:  I glow, I grow, I know.

The sunset touched me in ways I didn’t expect.   I was returning from a weeklong interfaith writer’s seminar at Kenyon College in Gambier, Ohio. The architects of the program called it “Beyond Walls” and that it was – a wonderful expression of all that challenged us as clergy and people who struggle with what it means to believe in something beyond ourselves.

We had amazing teachers, mentors and guides. It is no insult to those who sat at the head of the table to say that we learned almost as much from each other as we did from them. We held each other up; we confronted each other’s insecurities with the familiarity that comes from beginning with our own. We opened to each other and our own potential.

I saw the sunset on the second leg of my flights from Columbus back home. Does the plane window intensify the colors or is it the altitude and the ability to see a more distant horizon? It wasn’t just the colors though.

It is the crescent moon and the star aligned as if someone took a level and held it vertically. A little to the left, a little to the right – there it is. Let’s hang it. Let’s see who will accept the promise this sunset proclaims. (By the way – for those of you with a theological bent, I have no idea who’s  talking and what is inherent in the apostrophe of the word: let’s. If I had to guess it is the “me” of yesterday, today and tomorrow.)

So what were they promising – the moon, the star, the coral, purple departing light? Certainly not that it will be easy – or that you will get the colors you want or think you deserve. I would love to believe that I could pray my way into a predictable future. Fania Oz-Salzberger said to me this morning: “As a writer and a historian, I know that storylines do not develop the way we expect, neither in life nor in fiction. There are too many unforeseen factors, overlooked seeds …”  It was true for me;  the conclusion far exceeded what I anticipated at the start.

The sunset was just right.  No matter how colorful, it announces darkness will come. It is being born right now and you will journey through it. Darkness will come and so will the dawn. Lift yourself up and believe. You can’t predict the end from the beginning. Live with the colors and the alignment – there it is – it’s a wrap.

ps – Fania Oz-Salzberger’s article is a great read about potential, politics and Israel.

http://www.politico.eu/article/israel-2025/

It is summer. That means I am in North Carolina and my fingernails are dirty with the soil of my garden. I am trying to grow things like beets and tomatoes. The cucumbers grow themselves and the yellow squash is so prolific that we have taken to eating the flowers just for birth control. Although if you haven’t tried a squash flower, dusted, stuffed and sautéed, you don’t know summer.

It is hard to be a farmer, even a pseudo one like me. The fire ants are poised to attack and it is good to be at one with the buzzing of the honeybee who is the real miracle worker in the yard. And then there is the rain or the sun. Too much of either demands attention. And then there are the rabbits and the deer. They like beet greens and the lettuce. It is their forest after all.

It is a good lesson in humility. We are so cocky in our supermarkets of plenty. Picky too – the tomatoes have to be just right; there is a science to choosing the right banana – green to yellow, never too much brown.   But grow the stuff and know how dependent we are on so much that is beyond our control. Grow the stuff and begin to feel the limits of your humanity. Grow the stuff and feel the power of God.

I don’t mean God the father. I mean God who is Every-thing beyond the boundaries of my body. I mean the unforeseen and unpredictable. I mean life with all its challenges and blessings. I mean the wind that comes up unexpected, the rain that turns to hail, the tomato plant struggling to stand tall and straight against the sky.

I mean fighting for survival – a tactic my people know so well. It is summer and the dramaturgical calendar of Judaism sets us in a waiting game. By the end of this week, it will be the Hebrew month of Av and the Romans are at the gates of Jerusalem. They are determined to end this rebellion, this spirit of resistance. Within two weeks, the Temple will be destroyed. Judaism will be changed forever. What was will no longer be; yet, the seeds of what will be are pushing through the soil.

It is not easy to let go of the past. It is tough to see the Temple burning in flames. Eicha: “How deserted lies the city, once so full of people…” Some of us mourn and don’t officiate at weddings, don’t cut their hair; fast and read Lamentations. I respect their sense of loss; I affirm their sorrow. For many the fallen Jerusalem is the persecuted Jewish people. And I know with them that to our amazement, it is not over and the fire the Romans started still burns in strange and way too familiar places.

But my garden does not let me mourn. My garden demands I tend to its survival. My garden does not let me stand defeated. I am fiercely loyal to every branch and every shoot. I know it needs my constant care. My garden makes me stronger. This historical memory of what happened on this day and date two thousand years ago fills me with resolve that is both quiet and affirmative.   I will live; we will blossom and bear fruit – this people we call Israel, wrestler, struggler, perseveres and limping walks on to the next round of blessings.

Husband, Father, Grandfather, Reform Rabbi, Retired, Teacher, Community Activist, Learner, Listener.

Seeking wholeness both in my life and in the world around us.  Finding meaning in Jewish tradition and sources.  Discovering spirituality in repairing the world and myself.