“Between the Suns”
It is late afternoon. The sun is sinking. The shadows are lengthening. Our tradition ascribes special sanctity to the daily period of transition, the indeterminate time between day and night, neither day nor night, neither completely light nor completely dark, but somewhere in between. It is called bein ha-shemashot, “between the suns.” At such a time, the edge of the sea merges with the edge of the sky; at such a time, earth and heaven come very close; at such a time, borders of separation dissolve. It is said that souls pass between the worlds, and all things are possible.
The first twilight came at the end of the seventh day. When Adam saw the sun begin to sink, he grew frightened. He turned to Eve and said: “Because we disobeyed the divine command, darkness is enveloping the world. Soon the earth will become formless and void, as it was in the beginning, before the Holy One brought creation into existence.” Then he cried aloud to God: “Alas! Because of our sin, we are doomed. Have mercy upon us!” What did God do? God inspired Adam with wisdom from above. The human being arose, fetched two flints and rubbed one against the other. Fire sprang forth, and he exclaimed in astonishment: “Blessed are You, Eternal God, Ruler of the Universe, who creates the light of fire.” That is why each week at the conclusion of Shabbat to this day, we kindle the Havdallah candle and recite over it the very same words of blessing, in commemoration of that first Havdallah. (bAvodah Zara 8a; Breishit Rabbah 3:6)
We all live at every moment a hair’s breadth away from the terror of primordial darkness. We are constantly assailed by reports of tragic accidents and natural disasters—“acts of God” on the one hand, and of violence and cruelty—acts of evil on the other hand. We read about a random shooting in the newspaper, or, closer to home, a dear friend is newly diagnosed with life-threatening illness, and we secretly rejoice: “thank God, it didn’t happen to me.” We construct a life of seemingly secure surroundings and familiar routine, of work and play, of money and material comforts, but, in fact, we have much less control over what happens to us than we care to acknowledge. Rabbi Karen Silberman likens the existential human condition to hurtling through the depths of outer space on a spaceship. The spaceship is the veneer of order and stability that masks the endlessly black chaos just outside the window, threatening to break through the flimsy covering and engulf us at any moment. According to scholar Jon Levenson, even God is often Biblically portrayed as still engaged in combat against the powerful forces of darkness. “YHWH’s mastery is fragile,… Leviathan is still on the loose, and the absolute sovereignty of the absolutely just God lies ahead.” (Creation and the Persistence of Evil, pp. 47-48)
Occasionally, chaos and evil succeeds in piercing the veil. Extraordinary events momentarily rouse and shake us from our complacency. Something happens; we lose our job, we are given a medical diagnosis, a loved one dies—God forbid—and for a brief while, we remember the priorities and values that truly matter. This is our chance for Teshuvah—to take stock of our lives and to change direction—but too often we miss the opportunity. Instead, we rush to sweep away the pain, to reestablish the status quo as much as possible, and to return to normal.
In a documentary I watched the other night, AIDS activists rued the loss of the strong sense of mission that bonded them into tight fellowship during the early years of the health emergency. “People were dying right and left,” says one interviewee. “But, at the same time, we were there for one another, we looked out for each other. Nowadays, people no longer heed the warnings, and we old-timers, we are tired—or gone. HIV is still killing our young people, but I’m afraid if the early advocates of AIDS awareness were out in the community broadcasting their message of practicing safe sex today, nobody would stop to listen.” Similarly, an op-ed piece in last Sunday’s New York Times commented on the national response immediately after 9-11: “Emergencies are occasions for fresh starts and rethinking. Because they make death vivid for those who survive, they properly prompt people to appraise their [own] lives. [Thus,] we took September 11 as a wake-up call. We opened our minds to questions of how we could live better.” In contrast, a companion article reported on this year’s commemoration: “Posters and photographs held aloft bluntly injected politics into New York City’s annual ceremony. The once unifying day is now replete with tension and division.” (The New York Times, September 12, 2010)
It’s human nature to respond to crisis with vows of reform. The trick is to translate a single, extraordinary impetus for change into everyday renewal. In his pioneering early-twentieth-century work Varieties of Religious Experience, the psychologist-philosopher William James documented the phenomenon of sudden conversions, such as the life-altering experiences of born-again Christians or of alcoholics who hit rock bottom. He writes that radical transformations are difficult to sustain unless they are accompanied by permanent shifts in regular spiritual practice. Fortunately, softer interventions exist as well. Thank God we don’t have to wait for grand epiphanies or major catastrophes in order to effect long-lasting spiritual growth. We just need a little prodding sometimes, a periodic firm reminder of our higher purpose.
As I see it, the basic function of Yom Kippur is to remind us of our higher purpose—without the shock and pain of tragic circumstances. It is to shake us from our complacency, to re-instill in us a sense of urgency, and to reawaken our deeply buried primordial fear—or perhaps I should use the word “awe” instead of “fear,” as in the designation “Days of Awe,” yamim nora’im, which specifies the entire period of self-appraisal. Yom Kippur is considered a dress rehearsal for death. It is customary to wear the kittel, the white shroud that one will wear once again in her grave. The entire solemn liturgy and, in particular, the prayers of the day’s final service, Ne’ilah, reflect her final moments on earth. Ne’ilah culminates with the dramatic proclamation of the Shema, which our tradition also prescribes as the final words she recites just before she dies. But we do not die. We are resurrected. At the end of the day, the single blast of tekiah gedolah calls us back to life. We are not like Rabbi Harold Kushner’s dying parishioners whom I mentioned in my Rosh Hashanah sermon last week, “those who felt that they had [wasted] their lives, and if God would only give them another two or three years, maybe they would finally get it right.” We possibly have another two or three years. What will you do with your remaining two or three years?
I devoted last week’s sermon to the theme of holiness. I defined holiness as godliness projected downward into the world of human affairs, or, from a different perspective, the distillation of the noblest deeds and loftiest values of humankind projected upward into the spiritual realm. Within Judaism, qedushah, holiness, entails havdallah, separation. For example, the holiness of Yom Kippur resides in its singularity, separate from all other days. The Hassidic Alter Rebbe of Ger taught that anything that is holy exists not only for its own sake but, more importantly, for spreading its holiness outward. Accordingly, the purpose of Yom Kippur is not so much to spur self-reflection today, but to motivate self-improvement throughout the year. In a well-known Talmudic story, Rabbi Eliezer once admonished his disciple: “repent one day before you die.” “But Master,” replied the student, “does one then know the day on which one will die?” “Therefore, repent today, lest you die tomorrow,” said the Rabbi, “and so you will spend all your days in repentance.” (bShabbat 153a) When I was younger, I used to perform my annual rite of atonement by making grand New Year’s resolutions to myself and by mouthing stiff, generic apologies to others. I now believe that a quieter, more durable form of atonement demands, instead, a disposition toward humility and contrition in my daily interactions.
The first darkness fell at the end of the seventh day. It turns out that the Midrashic myth with which I began does not tell the full story. Have you ever wondered about the light of the first day of creation recorded in Genesis, when God said: “Let there be light,” and there was light? What light was this, when the sun, moon, and stars weren’t created until the fourth day of creation? The Rabbis also noticed the chronological discrepancy and explained it with the following, additional Midrash.
When the Holy One created light on the first day, it shone forever. For seven days, it shone continuously. It was light in the evening and in the morning. But as soon as Adam sinned, God looked into the generations and beheld the evil of humanity and the corruption of their ways. So God arose and hid the light from them, as it is written: “Light is withheld from the wicked.” (Job 38:15) And for whom did God reserve it? For the righteous in the time to come, as it is written: “Light is sown for the righteous.” (Psalm 97:11) (bHagigah 12a)
The two Midrashim, taken together, tell of two lights—one spiritual and the other physical, one created by God on the first day and the other created by the human being at the beginning of the eighth day, one that shone forever and the other that shines only as long as we continue to tend it. The second light shines for everyone, the righteous and wicked alike. The first light is reserved for the righteous. But, in the final hour of Yom Kippur, we all taste righteousness, as in the beginning.
The sun is sinking. The shadows are lengthening. The gates are closing. The trick is to respond to the gathering darkness by fetching our own flints and making our own fire, to translate our spiritual awareness into physical action, to extend the light of holiness into the eighth day, into tomorrow. The truth is, we are always bein ha-shemashot, “between the suns,” not just during these final moments of Yom Kippur, but every day. Or chadash al Tziyon ta’ir, venizkeh kulanu meheirah le’oro. “May a new light shine upon Zion, and may we all be worthy to bask in its light.” In the New Year, may the light of awareness shine through our thoughts, may the light of repentance shine through our deeds, and may the light of peace shine throughout the world.
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