We Didn’t Start The Fire
Some straight talk with the Holy One.
I’ve got a bone to pick with You, God.
I hope You don’t mind my informality here, but it’s been a long week. A long month. A long year. And after all we’ve been through lately, I think maybe we’re beyond formalities. I think maybe we’re ready to put the niceties aside, and really address what’s been going on. No fancy language. No frilly metaphors. Just You and me in direct conversation.
Like I said, God. I’ve got a bone to pick with You.
You see, when I picked up my trusty copy of the Torah this week, the chumash that I have used for decades to find insight and comfort, you greeted me with Parashat Mishpatim. It’s a list of laws, a list of rules, meant to bind the Israelite people and their descendants together in shared values and unified practice. Usually God, I delight in Your Torah. I love the puzzle of searching for modern relevance in Your ancient words. But this week, I couldn’t find it.
And this is why I’ve got this bone to pick with You, God.
You have such high expectations for us.
You have given us these important rules.
You want us to be moral.
You want us to be kind.
You want us to be fair.
וְאֵ֙לֶּה֙ הַמִּשְׁפָּטִ֔ים — these are the laws, You said.
And we promised to do them, נַעֲשֶׂ֥ה, and we promised to hear them, וְנִשְׁמָֽע. You made us promise not to burn things down, not to hurt each other, to take care of our most vulnerable.
But what about You, God?
Have You played by Your own rules?
Because I’ve got to say God, the rules all feel so broken.
God, You gave us instructions.
You said that כִּֽי־תֵצֵ֨א אֵ֜שׁ, when a fire is started, when it spreads to thorns, when growing grain is razed bare, that recompence is required. (Ex. 22:5)
Well, look around, God. A fire is raging. The flames are spreading. And it is razing us bare. It has been nearly one year since we retreated from public life. It has been nearly one year since we went to the movies without worrying, nearly one year since restaurants functioned at full capacity, nearly one year since we took our children going to school each day for granted. It has been nearly one year since we have prayed together in this holy space. Our businesses are struggling, God. Our loved ones have been furloughed and downsized, taken pay cuts, and been laid off. Driving through town we see more empty storefronts each day. Everyone is trying to change, to adapt, but this disease has raged so quickly that there hasn’t been time to douse the flames.
Where is the recompense, God, for the ones who have suffered this destruction? Where is the restoration for those who are choking on this debris? Who is taking responsibility for this smoke, and these ashes? We are looking to You, God, for respite. And in the meantime, far-reaching flames of this pandemic just keep raging.
I don’t mean any disrespect God, but I have to say that there are days where I expect more from You. Torah teaches, כָּל־אַלְמָנָ֥ה וְיָת֖וֹם לֹ֥א תְעַנּֽוּן, You shall not ill-treat any widow or orphan (22:21).
How can You stand by when almost one million women have left the work force, among them, a disproportionate number of single mothers — and among them, a disproportionate number who are women of color?
God, how can you teach us not to ill-treat our most vulnerable, and then look the other way while kids ‘attend school’ from the parking lot of a fast food restaurant — because they don’t have reliable wifi at home? The impact of this year has been tremendously difficult for everyone — but especially so for the orphan and the widow. Especially so for the single mother and the low-income family. Especially so for those whose resources were already stretched so very thin. For far too many, those ends that were once stretched can no longer meet.
God, I am picking this bone with You, and this is the most difficult part yet. You were so very clear in this week’s parasha. You said that מַכֵּ֥ה אִ֛ישׁ וָמֵ֖ת מ֥וֹת יוּמָֽת, one who kills someone should be put to death (21:12).
People are dying, God. The daily average may be on the way down, but the total numbers are still going up. People are still dying from this virus every day. This virus is a murderer. People are dying — and they are dying alone. People are dying — not just from the virus, but from lack of access to care, and for fear of going to the hospital. People are dying — from their sadness, and from their loneliness. Hundreds of thousands of deaths in the US alone — and as we are learning, this is a virus has a long memory. This virus is a trauma that will take generations to heal. People are dying, God. How can You stand idly by?
God. You made a rule for us in this parashah, that after 6 long days of work we ought to rest and be refreshed (Ex 23:12).
Don’t You think that by now we have earned that relief? You have asked us to be your hands, and we have tried. We are wearing our masks. We are lining up for vaccines. We are getting our groceries delivered and forgoing our rituals and our comforts and so many routines of our daily lives.
We have learned to have quiet celebrations.
We have learned to bless our babies alone.
To wed without guests.
To mourn without a comforting arm around us or hand to hold.
For nearly one year now we have carried the weight of this burden, and our arms are getting so tired. Our hands, which are Your hands, are getting so, so tired.
God, we are ready for You to spread over us your shelter of peace.
We are ready for You to bear us on eagle’s wings.
We are ready for You to part this sea.
We are ready for You to take this raging fire and make it into a pillar that can light this long dark night.
Please, God. Make us a miracle. Bring us out of this narrow place.
It’s like I said, God.
It feels like You aren’t following the rules.
I am picking this bone with You, God, and I need to know that You’re paying attention!
I am doing my part.
I am still looking for You among the helpers.
And I am still thanking You for joyful moments.
I still see You in the face of those I love, and I still praise You for the beauty of the desert and the growth of my children and the health of my loved ones.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry.
I know that You can hold my anger, God, can’t You.
I know that You hold me while I offer this primal scream.
Because:
You are Adonai Tzuri, Our Rock.
You are strong enough to catch the daggers we throw at You.
You are Avinu, our Father.
You gently lift this weight that is so heavy on our shoulders.
You are M’kor Chayim, Source of our Life.
When our chests stop heaving and our sobs subside, You help to dry our tears.
You are Dodeinu, our Beloved.
You kneel down next to us.
You take our hands.
You lift us up from this smoldering ash heap.
Who is like You, God? You wait at the shores of the sea, crying for your children who are drowning (Megillah 10b).
You see, I have this bone to pick with You, God.
You have given us all these rules. And we are trying, God. We are trying.
And from Your seat, deep in my heart, you answer:
“I have given you all of these rules,” You say. “And yet, עולם כמנהגו נוהג. The world goes according to it’s own way” (Avodah Zarah 54b).
“Let Me treat your burns,” You say.
“Let Me gather these bones. Let Me cradle this broken world.”
For I am Adonai your God, who led you out of the land of Egypt to be your God.
And I will carry your anger. And I will carry your pain. And we will hold it together, as we walk the long path from this narrow place to freedom once again.
Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin
Parashat Mishpatim, 2.12.21
Congregation Beth Israel, Scottsdale AZ
