Beshelach – Rising Sap, Rising Songs: Parting for a new Song of the Sea

by Lisa Greber

Somewhere on the shores of the Reed Sea, Miriam and Moses are singing; the gathered men and women of Israel sing the song back in refrain: “Ozi v’zimrat Yah, vay’hi li lishua” — “My strength and the song of the eternal will be my salvation” (Exodus 15:2). The song is full of relief and rage, celebrating the drownings of their former Egyptian masters. They are not safe enough yet for compassion, although I am sure God weeps here as well as rejoices.

Today is a special juxtaposition of celebrations: the Song of the Sea and the festival of Tu B'shvat; the first act of freedom from Egypt, the first sap rising in the trees in Israel. Though not quite yet here in Massachusetts - here it is still winter. The wind alternates bitter and relenting. The buffleheads, black and white winter ducks, dive for dinner in Dorchester Bay. On the beach where I walk, a Malibu Beach nothing like its California cousin, the tides have sculpted the ice at the high tide line into stepped curviform shapes, layers of mini history - on this day, the tide was higher than others, on another day, a bit wilder, on another day, the tide barely reached here at all.

There was more snow here earlier. Maybe there is something in us melting, a new opening into spring. The sea and the trees have been in Egypt for a long time; what in us must part to let them pass into a land of freedom, a land of milk and honey?

What is milk and honey for a beach or a tree? I do not know for sure, since they do not speak English; I can only guess from what I see or measure or dream. My beach at Malibu - I use the “my” not in the sense of ownership but of my own belonging, as in, my family – was once wide open to the larger Dorchester Bay, allowing water to flow freely in and out. Now a boulevard blocks the free exchange; sediment comes in but cannot so easily leave. The beach is choking on a dark anoxic mud that smells not simply of composting low tide, but of leftovers from ship deconstruction, sewage overflow, and oil from the nearby highway. Still, small patches of salt marsh grow, the mud snails are happy, and one great blue heron comes daily to fish. I think to Malibu milk and honey would be a return to open water, and more wild greenness within – salt marsh and eelgrass, and the lives they sustain.

If the sea and trees have been in Egypt, so have been we. If I read the Song of the Sea in this light, I can understand it as a journey from an Egypt of mastery over nature, to a new world of kinship and care. It is our own willingness to step into the unknownness of a new relationship with nature that parts the sea; it is the sense of “mastership” of nature that may keep following us that drowns in the sea. It is not easy to change; it is not without cost. I trust the nature of the ocean in our hearts and in the earth that will not waste the parts drowned in it, but will dissolve them to their constituents of carbon, phosphorous and nitrogen, to come back in a new form into the world of life again.

Somewhere on the shores of a new Reed Sea, Miriam and Moses are dancing. There is a chain between their dance and ours, their songs and ours. I am sitting on the shores of the Reed Sea; I have come through the waters, I have nearly drowned. The waters, once roiled, have quieted. They taste of salt water – sea and tears. What is the song I sing? “My strength and the song of the eternal will be my salvation” as we sit here together facing a new land, greener and more humble than the one before.

Vaere - A Lament

by Rabbi Katy Z. Allen

G!d hears the outcries of the Israelites from their place of bondage in Egypt, and in this week’s parasha – Vaere – G!d responds and promises delivery. Thus begins the seminal story of the Jewish people of redemption from bondage. G!d sends Moses to lead the people out of Egypt – Moses, who feels totally inadequate for the job. G!d then sends a series of plagues, the first of which we see in this week’s parashah, attempting, it initially appears, to wake up Pharaoh and the Egyptians so they will let the Israelites go. But Pharaoh’s heart only opens up for brief periods of time, and then it closes again. Eventually, in next week’s parashah, his heart opens long enough for the Israelites to flee. Their elation doesn’t last long, for soon at the shores of the Sea of Reeds they face the crisis of the sea looming in front of them and the chariots of the Pharaoh fast approaching from behind.

We, having heard the story every year at Passover and every year when this and the next parashah come around, know the end of the story. We know that G!d parts the waters of the sea and the Israelites escape into the desert unscathed. But the people to whom the story is happening don’t know as they experience it what will happen, and the results are not the same for the Israelites and for the Egyptians, both during and at the end.

Turning to the present, imagine not the outcry of an enslaved and degraded people, but the outcry of an enslaved and degraded Earth. Does G!d hear the Earth crying out today? Do we? What does it take to be able to hear the silent (and sometimes not-so-silent) cries of the Earth? Is G!d asking us to take the role of Moses and help deliver the Earth from its suffering? Are we feeling today as Moses did long ago – totally inadequate? Are we, like Moses, nevertheless willing, even if grudgingly, to accept the call to service, to changing our lives, to standing before the Pharaohs of today, with only faith that at the moment we need it, G!d will turn our “rod” into a “snake” and back again, as G!d did for Moses, to prove to those around us, or even to ourselves, the need for action? We are, perhaps, in the middle of the “plagues.” Like the Israelites and Egyptians of ancient times, we do not yet know how the story will end. We can only hope and maintain our faith, and answer the call to leadership.

This week, I attended the annual conference of the National Association of Jewish Chaplains in Boston. As chaplains, we learn to be a “non-anxious presence” in the face of the people and the personal traumas of illness and injury, as a way to help people find the strength to deal with what is happening in their lives. We stand in the tension, as a way to help in times of painful transition. We do not “do” anything, the way the nurses and doctors do. We simply help people hold their pain.

Moses is a man of action. And yet, after the action and the crisis and the redemption, Moses will stand “in the breach” as G!d reveals himself to him more than to any other human. Standing “in the breach,” in the tension, is a way to help facilitate change.

At this conference, I attended a workshop presented by Rabbis Bonita Taylor and David Zucker on using the Biblical book of Lamentations to help people create their own personal deep laments about the pain in their lives, the understanding being that only by voicing our deepest pain can we travel through it to a place of joy, and that by connecting our own voices to sacred text, we can find healing. In the same way, the Israelites were heard by G!d only after their outcries came from the deepest recesses of their hearts – only then were our people redeemed. Lamentations, or Eicha in Hebrew, is a book filled with powerful outcries of the deepest nature. It is also a sacred text. Our own outcries to G!d, our own laments, our own complains – like those of the Israelites in Egypt – are also sacred. So, too, are the outcries of the Earth.

After studying the text in the workshop, we read laments written by previous students of this text and process, and then we wrote our own laments. As I listened deep within myself for my own lament, my own despair, I felt not my own personal sorrows, but my response to the degradation of the planet. I share with you here the lament I wrote, as the voice of the Earth speaking to me, or through me, rose up in my heart. Because the idea is to connect our own voices to the sacred text, you will see individual verses from the Book of Lamentations followed by words in my own voice. When you finish reading, I invite you to write your own laments, with a connection to sacred text if you so choose, or without it, if that is more comfortable. I invite you to post your lament as a comment.

May our laments cleanse us of enough despair to lead us to greater levels of action.

“he burned like a flaming fire” (Lamentations 2.3)
Burned, burned – wood, coal, oil, gas, gasoline –
burned, burned, burning, burning –
stealing from me my ancient gifts,
throwing back filth, black and invisible.

“He has demolished without pity” (Lam. 2:17)
Forests –
trees reaching toward the sky,
vines clinging to their sides,
nests of birds,
epiphytic orchids,
soil left open, denuded, barren, stripped of life.

“Zion stretches out her hands, but there is no one to comfort her” (Lam. 1:17)
I, the Earth, cry out –
tsunami, winds, waves, pelting precipitation,
raging heat, ice and snow,
and melting, melting, melting.

“I called to my lovers but they deceived me” (Lam. 1:19)
You claim to love me –
yet you drive your card, heat your home, turn on your lights –
eat fancy foods from across the sea,
get in an airplane to visit your ailing parent –
You claim to love me.

“They heard how I was groaning, with no one to comfort me” (Lam. 1:21)
Will no one hear my cries?
I only have one life to give.

“The kings of the earth did not believe” (Lam. 4:12)
They meet in Kyoto,
they meet in Copenhagen;
they claim to care, but not enough;
politics prevail,
little changes.

“Our eyes failed, ever watching vainly for help” (Lam. 4:17)
And while I wait, my rivers run dry, or dirty,
clouds of filth settle over summer cities,
you who caused it all sicken and die,
the indigo bunting shimmers blue but no one sees.

“Slaves rule over us” (Lam. 5:8)
The oil must be sold;
you must get to work;
you must have another pair of shoes;
you must hit the ball across grass kept green by poison;
must, must, must.

“Arise, cry out in the night at the beginning of the watches” (Lam. 2:19)
Lovers of life, hopers of a brighter future,
mothers of children, keepers of the faith and of the planet,
rise up,
cry out,
change your ways,
change your ways,
change your ways –
or give up hope for me.