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A prayer for the waiting

Writer's picture: Rabbi Jodie Gordon Rabbi Jodie Gordon

There’s a story told in this week’s Haftorah portion from the book of Isaiah, about the Leviathan. Throughout the canon of the Hebrew bible— from Psalms to the book of Job, to Isaiah– the Leviathan looms as both a literal and metaphorical enemy of humanity– a powerful sea monster or serpent, often used as a symbol of God's enemies or a formidable foe.  The Leviathan- lurking beneath the surface of the Sea of Galilee, is described by one commentator as “Beyond discipline or training, the Leviathan is the embodiment of ferocious and ungovernable violence; and it knows it and does not care. Many desperate attempts have been made to catch this rampaging sea-monster but all have been in vain. And even were it caught alive it would never submit”. 


Our haftarah portion describes what God will do for the Jewish people, after delivering them from the grasps of “ לִוְיָתָן֙ נָחָ֣שׁ בָּרִ֔חַ וְעַל֙ לִוְיָתָ֔ן נָחָ֖שׁ עֲקַלָּת֑וֹן” saving them from “Leviathan the Elusive Serpent—Leviathan the Twisting Serpent”.  Isaiah  describes the vineyard of delight that God will provide for the people— and how God will water it, tending to it, ensuring the well-being of these people delivered from the hands of their enemy. 


In Isaiah’s time, the Leviathan - a symbol of utter chaos - stands in as a metaphor for the powerful enemies of their time- notably the Babylonians, Assyrians, and Egyptians; those who would seek the destruction of the Jewish people. Wrestling God’s people from the grasp of that elusive and twisting enemy, Isaiah goes on to give voice to God’s willingness to make peace— for those who are willing, for those who stay close to this vineyard of delight: 


 יַעֲשֶׂ֥ה שָׁל֖וֹם לִ֑י שָׁל֖וֹם יַעֲשֶׂה־לִּֽי׃


Ya’aseh shalom li, shalom ya’aseh li.


I will make peace with them. Peace, I will make it with them. 


This story lands powerfully for me on this Shabbat. 

This morning, on day 469 since October 7th, 2023, the Security Cabinet of the State of Israel signed approval for a Ceasefire deal that will see the release of 33 hostages in its first phase, beginning this Sunday.  The last week has been a microcosm of the pain we have witnessed and experienced over the last 15 months: the false starts, the exaggerated promises, the enemies that we perceive both within and outside our own weary people. Each step, each announcement, each delay, and each moment of perceived progress has been for the hostage families, and for civilians in Gaza, a painful rollercoaster. 


And here we find ourselves, on this Shabbat, and I cannot help but still hold my breath. This is truly a Shabbat shel Tzipiya- a Shabbat of anticipation. 


There is so much we don’t know, and can’t control. Anticipation is a powerful feeling. Anticipation sits next to us during times when we are simply waiting, as though poking us in the heart, reminding us of what might come, or could come, or might not come, or what we wish would come next. 


What wisdom might our tradition offer us in moments of great anticipation, when the very act of waiting feels so weighted?  How might we prepare for all that may unfold?


I think of the voice of the prophet Isaiah, reminding us that those who turn away from chaos— those who would reject the Leviathan, and come close to God will find themselves in a “vineyard of delight”--- and what does that vineyard of delight require of those who enter?

 יַעֲשֶׂ֥ה שָׁל֖וֹם לִ֑י שָׁל֖וֹם יַעֲשֶׂה־לִּֽי׃


Ya’aseh shalom li, shalom ya’aseh li. 


Make peace with me and I will make peace. 


What might it mean for us to seek peace in this moment that is still so fraught? 


I am reminded of a line from a song in the musical “Rent”: the opposite of war isn’t peace- it’s creation. With hearts turned toward Israel and Gaza on this Shabbat, there is still so much unaccomplished by this deal— so many still left behind, so much without guarantee. This cannot be it. This is not that Shalom Rav, that great peace that we pray for. Not yet. The world as we wish for it to be is still not here. 


What will be created by what unfolds over the days and weeks ahead? 

The urgency of this moment is palpable; truly, the lives of human beings, with families who love them, hang in the balance. Our tradition is unequivocal in its assertion that to save even a single life, is to save an entire world— and that our obligation to preserve life comes before any other mitzvah. 


I think tonight of the families in Israel who have been holding their breath for 469 days. And now— their waiting has a possible expiration date. An end to this version of their suffering sits in the foreseeable future; and yet- after so many days and months and sleepless nights, how can they possibly exhale yet? There’s so much uncertainty— how will their loved ones return? I think tonight of the families whose loved ones are not on that first list of 33. I I think of those families whose relief and redemption still sits in the hands of men who have allowed this to go on for this long to begin with. How can they possibly continue to hold their breath? 


And here we sit: in our own beliefs, in our own relationships to those much closer to the suffering that is on-going in Israel and in Gaza, with our own doubts and fears about what may or may not come to be— and I wonder, when might we exhale? 


In this waiting space, in this breath-holding place, in this time of great anticipation— this is our spiritual challenge. How do we live in the “not yet”? 


There is a teaching in Tosefta, an early collection of rabbinic traditions, that offers us this image: 

“make for yourself a heart of many rooms, and enter into it the words of Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai”--- 


which is to say, make for yourself a heart of many rooms, knowing that like two of the greatest teachers of our rabbinic tradition, Hillel and Shammai, there will be words and ideas worthy of making space for those that are in conflict with one another. In other words– our human hearts can hold more than only what we feel sure of; and in fact, our Jewish tradition pushes us to hold on to it all—-the words of both those we agree and disagree with. 


We’ve been working on these hearts of many rooms for a long time now. And in this particular moment, on this particular Shabbat, we may feel tempted to curl up in that heart room that is most comfortable to us, and close our eyes for a bit. 


Instead, I would invite you to join me in turning on the lights in more of those rooms in your own heart— I know they exist. By being human in the world, by inviting the stories of others, you have built these rooms over the course of your lifetime. In this moment of anticipation, perhaps the best thing we might do for ourselves, and for humanity is to remember that the heart is an ever-expanding organ; we can add room upon room.  We can turn on the light in the room that awaits for Ariel and K’fir Bibas, with their now iconic red hair, come home alive, and we can turn on the light in the room that worries for the remaining 65 hostages, whose own redemption is many phases away. We can turn on the light in the room that holds the image of the 5 tatspityanot, the 5 female observers, Naama Levy, Liri Albag, Danielle Gilboa, Karina Ariev and Agam Berger, with hope that their return will be in wholeness, and we can turn on the light in the room that worries for the consequences of those 250 prisoners who will be released in exchange.  We can not only make a heart of many rooms for ourselves, we can be unafraid to shine light upon the hard truths that live in those rooms. Our hearts can hold it all, even when they feel so full that they could burst, or break. 


For the last fifteen months, we have sung, and prayed, and written and hoped for a moment that would feel like “the end”, and this may be the closest we can get– a moment of new hope and potential, even as it is a moment that is still incomplete. 


Just about a year ago, I wanted to write a new prayer for Israel, which I have shared in part now each Shabbat before we sing Acheinu, the prayer for the captives. And all week, as the news of this deal ebbed and flowed, I wondered: what would be the prayer for this moment?I thought of the blessing we say as part of the Nissim b’Chol Yom each morning; the blessing for daily miracles which gives us the words: Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha’Olam, matir asurim. Blessed Are You God, who frees the captive. 


Soon, God willing, but not yet. 


I thought of the blessing of Gomel, the blessing that one who has survived a dangerous situation recites in community- thanking God for preserving their life. 


Soon, God willing, but not yet. 


I thought of the words of Hallel: those verses of praise that help us to say our “Hallelujahs” out loud. 


Soon, God willing, but not yet. 


The part of my brain and the bulk of my heart which thinks in terms of rituals and blessings to hold the unholdable moments truly can only begin to anticipate what we might say in the days and weeks ahead. 


Our tradition knows that even the passing of time takes time.

Though time can be redemptive, there are those for whom the waiting feels endless, and the passing of one season to another does not bring an end to the waiting.


And so perhaps that is the only blessing for this moment: to turn on the lights in as many rooms of our heart as we can bear,  to look for God in the waiting, and to find hope in the passing of time.


Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, m’shanah itim u’machalif ha’zmanim.


Blessed are You Adonai Our God, Ruler of the Universe, you cause time to pass and seasons to change. 


May we hear good news soon. 







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