The Last Word is Never the Last

Death overcomes us in the winter.

The buds shiver inside the enfolded arms of its mother. The grass turns a ghastly brown blossom stubborn decaying leaves yet clean to the branches of trees. Long ago all hope was lost.

It is hard to see life beyond the pallid grey of winter. This is why so many of our friends and neighbors move south during the short days. Unable to bear the harshness of the cold months they seek light and warmth and growth another climes.

To wait for the renewal of growth takes patience. It is the same lesson that parents of teenagers learn as they wait for maturation to take hold of the child. Waiting is no easy task.

There is a beautiful story told of Honi HaMaagel in the Talmud.  Honi saw a man planting a carob tree. Honi then asked the man, “How long will it be before this tree bears fruit?” The man replied, “Seventy years.” Honi was incredulous. “Why are you planting it then? You certainly do not expect to live another 70 years!” The man replied, “Just as my forefathers planted for me so I plant for the next generation.”

Honi  pondered this thought and she sat down behind the rock to eat. Drowsiness overcame him and soon he fell asleep. Upon awakening, Honi saw a man picking fruit from the carob tree. He asked him, “Are you the man who planted this tree?” The stranger responded, “No I am his grandson.”

The story is magnificent and it’s profound simplicity. It speaks of the ability to wait patiently for the future, and plant for it. Most of us, like Honi would rather concern ourselves with the present. And the present consumes us. We become depressed by the long rainy days and are saddened by the winter and loss of life. But life does return and with it comes with a renewed joy. Pain subsides and new goals and plans are charted.

In the Jewish tradition it is customary to plant a tree when a child is born. Not simply out of joy do we pack plant the sapling but for a real practical purpose. The branches from the tree will one day be pruned to form the cover of the huppah, the bridal canopy, of that child.

Yes, Judaism some speaks about the present but it also speaks to the future. Beyond death there is life. After upheaval comes stability. We are obligated to anticipate it and plan for it.  Just the doldrums of winter, life springs outward. Every day that we live and function is another day in the ever-turning wheel of our lives. Just as the cycle of years rotates, so does our life rotate. It turns around and around and sooner than we think, we no longer stand where we once stood. Our task is to anticipate change and to allow ourselves to grow with life, not against it.

Tu B'Shvat

This month we celebrate the renewal of nature’s cycle. Throughout the past cold, dark weeks of winter we have witnessed death. The leaves have withered and decayed, the grass is turned additional shade of brown, insects and the familiar the creatures of early morning are now burrowed snuggly under the ground.  Tu B’Shvat tells of life, which wells up from the earth. Finding less resistance from the hard crust, tiny heads to begin to push upwards seeking warmth. As if propelled by the giant foundations of the deep, the familiar sprigs of the oncoming season have decided that they have rested long enough from their long winter sleep.

A story: A calf was being lead along the street toward the slaughterhouse. As Rabbi Judah passed by the animal broke loose, sensing that it was going to its death. It ran to Rabbi Judah and nuzzled its head in his cloak, whimpering pathetically.

Gently, Rabbi Judah turned the calf around to where it’s understood waiting. He bent down to speak into it it’s here. “Go,” he said. “This is what you were created for."

On that day, the heavenly court decreed that since Rabbi Judah had shown no compassion, sufferings would be brought upon him.

Truth be told, Judaism seems to forever be concerned with humanity. We have laws governing every action, whether potential for real.  We call this menschlichkeit.  Our relation to our fellow human being is of ultimate consequence. But the heritage of Israel just as strongly advocates care for all life.

According to Torah, a farmer is prohibited from purchasing more animals than he could adequately care for. And if she could not provide for them the basic needs of all her animals, the farmer was forbidden from possessing them. In fact, our tradition go so far as to say that she even had to feed them before sitting down to her own dinner (this law exists until his day: we must feed our animals before feeding ourselves).

Why this level of concern?  After all, animal life is not on the par with humans. Beginning with Noah's Ark and extending through the laws of muzzling an ox with an ass, what does our heritage really want to teach us through the great number of stories and dicta about animal rights?

Is the lesson not this?  Beauty and supernal holiness pulsates through the fabric of all life. Appreciation for the processes of photosynthesis, upholding the natural currents of life, taking care of our oceans and forests; these things bring us a little closer to God.  When we look at a budding leaf or flower and feel wonder, maybe even something close to rapture, we are soulfully uplifted.  That moment connects us with the Source of all life, the Holy One.

Indifference is a cardinal sin for a religious person. Turning a deaf ear to the universe is the surest past to an unfulfilled life. What Heschel called the “Legacy of Wonder” is a God-given gift that we too often ignore.

Tefilah, real prayer, is an act awe and appreciation. It means seeing the world refreshed and replenished as we do when we celebrate Tu B’Shvat. Rabbi Judah’s crime was not recognizing the uniqueness of every fold in nature, let alone an animal. No form of life, however primitive or, is without holiness.

The words God spoke to Job still apply: “Stand still and consider the wondrous works of the Lord."

Stand still and be in awe.