Dear TBZ Community:
This week’s Torah portion, Bo, continues the story of the Exodus. The last three plagues are in our parasha, including darkness (hoshekh), the night plague. On the High Holidays, only 4 months ago, I delivered a sermon, “From the Darkness of Isolation to the Lightness of Being Seen,” in which I spoke about loneliness and the ways that Jewish tradition and being part of intentional community can help us navigate loneliness and darkness in our lives. As I shared on the High Holidays, the plague of darkness can be understood not just as the simple meaning of the lack of light or the darkness of night or of a place without electricity, but darkness as an experience of isolation, of separation, of depression, of fear.
In Exodus 10:23 we read:
לֹא־רָאוּ אִישׁ אֶת־אָחִיו וְלֹא־קָמוּ אִישׁ מִתַּחְתָּיו שְׁלֹשֶׁת יָמִים
People could not see one another, and for three days no one could move about
The darkness was so thick that people could not see each other, could not find one another, could not move, and could not stand. The verse ends telling us that this was not the case for the Israelites:
וּלְכל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הָיָה אוֹר בְּמוֹשְׁבֹתָם
but all the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings
Rabbi Marc Katz, author of The Heart of Loneliness: How Jewish Wisdom Can Help You Cope and Find Comfort, quoting midrash Tanchuma explains: “our Rabbis understood that there was a unique pain in the plague of darkness. In their minds, this darkness was unlike the darkness that we often encounter in our everyday. It was a total darkness. Not only did it block sight, but it also blocked sound and movement.” He adds:
“Yet this soup-like darkness was not an instant problem. In fact, our Rabbis explain, the first few days of darkness were tolerable. For three days people could move about and while they could not see their fellow, they could certainly hear him and touch him. However, darkness usually begets more darkness and after three days the air was so thick with blackness that it was oppressive. One could not sit or stand. Everyone was in their own isolation chamber, frozen in whatever place they were when the fog rolled in.”
(You can also read more from Rabbi Katz in his 2017 blog post about parasha Bo.)
The commentary in Etz Hayim, the chumash or printed Torah with commentary that we use in our sanctuary, also suggests that this was not just a physical darkness:
“Perhaps the plague was not a physical darkness, a sandstorm, or a solar eclipse (eclipse last for a few minutes, never for three days); perhaps it was a spiritual a psychological darkness, a deep depression…. Perhaps the Egyptians were depressed by the series of calamities that had struck them or by the realization of how much their own comfort depended on the enslavement of others. The person who cannot see his neighbor is incapable of spiritual growth, incapable of rising from where he is currently” (Etz Hayim, page 377).
I think many of us can relate to this image, this notion of thick darkness, isolation, and separation when experiencing depression or mental health struggles. Darkness is the incapacity to see, hear, or feel anything beyond the thick darkness; not being able to see others, and feeling that we are not seen by others.
Since October 7th, this sense of darkness has expanded for many of us. I know personally, the last three and a half months have been difficult. The lack of hope, of not being able to see beyond the suffering, the hurt, the war, and not being able to hold onto the belief of a brighter future has been challenging. After my trip to Israel last week, and after listening to the experiences of friends and family there, bearing witness to the atrocities that occurred on October 7th, and learning what people are feeling and doing and experiencing, I continue to feel a lack of clarity as to what will happen next. I feel constantly sad, worried, and heart-broken. Seeing the darkness, feeling it in my body, and at moments not knowing when darkness will end is not how I typically encounter the world. But as I shared, I also came back with a small sense of hope – or at least a reminder not to lose hope.
For me right now, holding onto hope, onto light, embracing joy even when it is most difficult, is part of the work I am trying to do. It is hard work. And I know that I can’t do it alone. I have to make the effort to be in community, to be supported, and to support others. Part of belonging to an intentional, spiritual, and religious community is to create opportunities and build connections that help us walk through life, not alone, through darkness and light (and all that is in between).
Last Shabbat, Dr. Lori Lefkowitz gave a beautiful d’var Torah (word of Torah, sermon) for parshat Vaera in honor of the aufruf (Yiddish, being “called up,as in an aliyah, before a wedding) of her daughter and son in law. (Mazal tov!) I want to lift up two teachings that Lori shared: In her words, “However stuck we are now, and however miserable and tragic this process becomes, liberation will happen. This parsha demands that we take a long view. It calls to mind the words of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., whose memory we honor this weekend, ‘The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice’.”
The second teaching that Lori shared that spoke to me, and I want to hold and amplify, is, “Human partnerships manifest Divine power.” What beautiful Torah to remember and hold onto when darkness seems to be a constant in our lives. (You can watch Lori’s d’var Torah on YouTube). The work of investing in human partnerships is perhaps one of the most important responses to these very difficult times. And I am hoping that TBZ can be a place for all of us to be part of intentional and meaningful community, to build human partnership so we can experience God’s presence in our world and in our lives.
May this Shabbat bring blessings and consolation to all of you and your loved ones. May we find strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts with generosity. May all those who are ill find healing.
And my most fervent prayer, each day: May all the hostages come home soon to their families and friends, and may we see peace.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia