Dvar Va'Etchanan

How can we find comfort after loss? What do we gain when we (have to) let go something, someone, we care for? Well-meaning answers often sound like this: You never know what it’s good for. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. You’re better off without them.

There is truth in such practical advice. Often, there are bright sides of life to look at. When we bid farewell to things, places, or people because their time has come, we may encounter a feeling of liberation as well as new opportunities.

Yet what if we must abandon a dream that hasn’t come true? What if we know that on some level, we ourselves have forfeited the chance for that dream being realized? What if a vision that kept us going proved to be a mirage? What if it is too late in life to pursue another dream?

The Spanish singer Joaquín Sabina lamented: No hay nostalgia peor que añorar lo que nunca jamás sucedió – No longing is more painful than the one for something which never happened.

Moses knew this. In Devarim 3:23-25, the recounting of his plea to enter the land brims with such painful longing:

וָאֶתְחַנַּ֖ן אֶל־יְהֹוָ֑ה בָּעֵ֥ת הַהִ֖וא לֵאמֹֽר׃

I pleaded with God at that time, saying,

אֲדֹנָ֣י יֱהֹוִ֗ה אַתָּ֤ה הַֽחִלּ֙וֹתָ֙ לְהַרְא֣וֹת אֶֽת־עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶ֨ת־גׇּדְלְךָ֔ וְאֶת־יָדְךָ֖ הַחֲזָקָ֑ה אֲשֶׁ֤ר מִי־אֵל֙ בַּשָּׁמַ֣יִם וּבָאָ֔רֶץ אֲשֶׁר־יַעֲשֶׂ֥ה כְמַעֲשֶׂ֖יךָ וְכִגְבוּרֹתֶֽךָ׃

“O Lord God, You who let Your servant see the first works of Your greatness and Your mighty hand, You whose powerful deeds no god in heaven or on earth can equal!

אֶעְבְּרָה־נָּ֗א וְאֶרְאֶה֙ אֶת־הָאָ֣רֶץ הַטּוֹבָ֔ה אֲשֶׁ֖ר בְּעֵ֣בֶר הַיַּרְדֵּ֑ן הָהָ֥ר הַטּ֛וֹב הַזֶּ֖ה וְהַלְּבָנֹֽן׃

Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan, that good hill country, and the Lebanon.”

Moses’ despair reaches us through the millennia as if he had uttered these words yesterday. Not only does he ask to physically touch the land in front of him—but also to see beyond what can be embraced from Mount Nebo: the Lebanon, the mountain-range in the north and home of the mighty, beautiful cedars.

It is the end of his life. He longs for his dream to be fulfilled. He wants his well-deserved portion. He yearns to be part of the future and not be left behind.

One reason tradition gives for why Moses, the prophet like no other, is denied access to the land toward which he’s been shepherding the Israelites for 40 years, is that he lost his patience and temper, i.e. his faith in God, when he hit the rock, in Parshat Chukat, instead of speaking to it so it may yield water.

Every year, many of us wonder: Isn’t it all but understandable, after the quarrels upon the return of the spies; the Korach rebellion; a devastating plague; the loss of his siblings Miriam and Aaron; war; ongoing complaints, that Moses lost his temper and maybe, even, also his faith in God, for just one moment? Must the leader be held to higher standards? Many would probably say, Yes of course: He’s the role model, he must always excel! But does the leader not need faithful followers as well, who support and help him excel? And don’t all good leadership theories say that a leader should not be afraid to make mistakes?

But what if he makes the same mistake again? What if the second Temple gets destroyed as well?

These days, I’m looking back at chapters in my life when I hit the rock again, despite knowing better. When I let my experience of slavery rule my sense of freedom and was surrounded by people who did not help me bring out my best qualities. When my emotions were too intense and my faith in the unfolding of time not strong enough. When the same things didn’t work out again.

The poet Chana Bloch wrote: Nothing happens only once. We perform the past over and over until we get it right. I resonate with this cyclical, redemptive notion of time, but have learned that sometimes, we must stop performing the past. Sometimes, trying to get it right, trying to rebuild a figurative (first, second, etc.) temple too soon, too fast; with too much love, too much zeal leads to weak foundations and ongoing conflict.

If we want to achieve stable peace—in our minds, in our relationships, regarding our dreams—we must let go the hope for eternity.

In this context, I recall the last stanza of the poem In this Valley, by Yehuda Amichai: But this valley is a hope of starting afresh without having to die first, of loving without forgetting the other love, of being like the breeze that passes through it now, without being destined for it.

This is Shabbat Nachamu, and I should share more messages of positivity! I should focus on the fact that the liturgical cycle of the Jewish year is orchestrated in such a way that pain and joy, grief and comfort alternate until the days of Moshiach. That the land was promised to Abraham, but he never possessed it, and neither did Isaac nor Yaakov. That we are not commanded to complete the work but are obligated to do our part and thus shape—and belong to—the future. That Moses plays an essential role in our here and now, and beyond.

One of the last imperatives in the Torah is to choose life. There is comfort in the beauty of life, of being on this journey of life together, for longer or for shorter, with dreams come true and with dreams unfulfilled. This Shabbat, we’re beginning to count towards consolation. Towards the moment when we all stand together and the next iteration of a new liturgical year will lead us back to and away from— and back again to—the days of old.