My main takeaway from this past week is that fire makes a much better metaphor, than lived experience. Fire appears throughout our Jewish tradition countless times— so many times in fact, that it can symbolize so many things. As metaphors go, fire is up there: fire distills, illuminates, burns, destroys, paves fresh pathways, warms….
From the moment that God appears to Moses in a burning bush, until Moses encounters God again on top of a fiery mountaintop— fire figures prominently in the stories of our people. According to tradition, God wrote the Torah as "black fire on white fire", and then, Torah descends to the people at Mt. Sinai amidst fire.
The metaphor of fire in relationship to Torah extends far beyond Mt. Sinai. We are reminded that Torah, like fire, is divine, eternal, and life-giving when engaged with properly, and dangerous when misused or neglected. A midrash from Sifrei— an ancient book of midrash on Deuteronomy describes:
Just as fire "lives" forever, so words of Torah live forever. With Torah as with fire — one who is close to it is warmed; one who is distant from it is cold … And just as fire is utilized in this world and in the world to come, so, too are words of Torah. And just as fire leaves an "impression" on one's body, so Torah scholars, who toil in words of Torah are "recognized" by others by the way that they walk, the way that they speak, and the way they carry themselves in the world.
The metaphor of fire as it relates to Torah acknowledges Torah's relationship to anger: The Biblical texts about God as a “consuming fire” teach that there are times when a “holy fire” of anger is an appropriate response to events in life. At the end of the Torah, Moses warns Israel the consequences of their forgetting their covenant with God.
Take care, then, not to forget the covenant that your God יהוה concluded with you, and not to make for yourselves a sculptured image in any likeness, against which your God יהוה has enjoined you. For your God יהוה is a consuming fire, an impassioned God. (Deuteronomy 4:23-24)
Finally— fire is a symbol of eternality; of presence, and God’s perpetual care for the people Israel. We read in Leviticus: "A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar." Our Rabbis said (see Taanit 27b) [that] were it not for the daily (lit., perpetual) sacrifices, the Earth and Heavens would not survive.
Fire can be so many things: a metaphor for the dazzling brilliance of black letters on white parchment; it can represent God’s presence, whether in the bush burning unconsumed, or the dramatic peaks of fire on top of Sinai. It can be a metaphor for anger, and a sign of eternality.
And as someone who loves a good metaphor— that is all well and good. Until there is literal, non-metaphorical fire right in your own backyard.
This past week, we saw realized a fear that I have held in the back of my mind for the last couple of months. August became September, and then September turned to October, and still no rain. As the weeks went by, the dryness in the air became a daily noticing for me. Each day that passed without rain, felt foreboding to me. The spectacular foliage of this past Autumn grew to worry me, as each day that I drove home taking in the incredible reds, oranges and yellows, thinking to myself “the leaves should be bare by now.”
This is not wisdom that comes to me naturally or by default, but rather because it is so embedded in our own liturgical practice. As soon as we marked the end of our festival season, with the end of Sukkot and the celebration of Simchat Torah, Jewish time told us that it was time to redirect our prayers. In the Amidah, each time we pray, we address God: Atah Gibor— You are forever mighty, Adonai; you give life to all. And then we continue, but our words depend on the season. From the end of Pesach until Simchat Torah, we say Morid hatal— You rain dew upon us. But in this season, our prayers change. We say Mashiv ha’ruach u’morid hagashem— You cause the wind to shift and rain to fall. These prayers give voice to the closely intertwined relationship we are meant to experience between God, the earth, and ourselves.
For weeks we prayed for the winds to shift, and for the rain to fall, and still- no rain fell. Our liturgy reminds us that God is the Source of the power of nature, and yet- we know that our role is essential. The way we live in the world has the power to cause the winds to shift, and the rain to fall (or, not to fall, as it were). Our liturgical tradition is grounded in the agricultural wisdom of our forebears in the land of Israel, and we continue it today as a statement of our belief that there is indeed, a divine aspect to the patterns of nature.
There is a story recounted in the Talmud of how two communal leaders responded during a time of devastating drought in the land of Israel. One, Rav, declared a ritual fast, and still the rain did not come. Then, an unnamed prayer leader stands before the community and says “Mashiv ha’ruach! Who makes the winds to blow”— and the wind blew. He spoke again saying “U’morid ha’gashem! Who causes rain to fall”-- and the rains fell. Rav turns to this unnamed man in disbelief— “How did you do that? Why have you succeeded where I have failed? What good deeds have you done to merit your prayers being answered like that?” Our unnamed leader answers: I am a teacher of children. I teach Torah to all of the children equally, whether they are from poor families or rich; I teach them with love and patience.”
Here, I would say again: it’s a better metaphor than lived experience.
We do not believe that our prayers are stronger than science— and that personal virtue leads to prayers being answered.
But were we to try to wrestle a blessing out of this moment— transcending the metaphors of fire and prayer— what might we actually learn?
I think back over the week gone by, and I am taken by the realization that our Great Barrington, and broader Berkshire community got an on-the-job lesson in community care and solidarity.
Broadening our view from the fire itself, what we experienced was a crisis situation that did threaten life and property. And it was not something that most of us have ever experienced— perhaps like me, you too texted friends and family on the West Coast this week to say “wow. I think I get it now. I can’t believe you’ve been living through these wildfires for years”.
Fire is all of the things that it represents in our tradition: it teaches us, by its power and its unpredictable nature, that we are not in charge. What we learned this week, is that sometimes, we have to stop, and dial back to the essentials. In this case, that meant patience in place of hysteria, as our local emergency responders worked quickly to fight the fire while coordinating a communications effort. It meant finding ways to both be of service and support, while not being in the way. And now— with the welcome news that the still insufficient rain of the last two days has helped to contain the fire— it means holding on to that sense of urgency for expressing gratitude and care to others in our community.
I was particularly taken by an announcement shared late yesterday afternoon by the Great Barrington Fire Department:
“Due to immense support from the public, all public donations to firefighters fighting the Butternut Fire have been suspended. Residents are urged to give all donations to local food pantries in advance of the Thanksgiving holiday”.
So perhaps one more lesson from this fire:
When you have enough-
When your own needs are met—
Help direct generosity to others, who are in need.
As we approach Thanksgiving, I hope this message of gratitude will resonate for us all as a tangible way to mark this moment. As of today, the initial moments of crisis and danger have passed— while the fires still smolder, the messaging from the fire department has changed to reflect a sense of diminished danger at this time.
For that, we should be extremely grateful to the firefighters who risked their lives throughout the week, leaving behind families to try to extinguish this fire without harm or injury to others and themselves. Together with first responders, their efforts kept our community informed and safe from harm.
Thanksgiving is a time for blessings of gratitude, and so tonight feels like an appropriate time for one of the ultimate blessings of gratitude that is part of our Jewish tradition: Birkat HaGomel.
The act of saying this blessing, which is sometimes known as “benching gomel,” is traditionally for one who has survived a serious illness, or other dangerous and life threatening experience.
The blessing itself places our gratitude squarely in community— the tradition directs the one who has made it through that dangerous situation to say:
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה’ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם הַגּוֹמֵל לְחַיָּבִים טוֹבוֹת שֶׁגְּמָלַנִי כָּל טוֹב
Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, ha-gomel l’chayavim tovot she-g’malani kol tov.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, ruler of the world, who rewards the undeserving with goodness, and who has rewarded me with goodness
The congregation responds
מִי שֶׁגְמַלְךָ כֹּל טוֹב הוּא יִגְמַלְךָ כֹּל טוֹב סֶלָה
After the recitation of this blessing, the congregation responds
Mi she-g’malcha kol tov, hu yi-g’malcha kol tov selah
May the One who rewarded you with all goodness reward you with all goodness for ever
Like those prayers for the winds to blow and the rain to fall- our prayers of gratitude cannot change all of the realities of our world.
Heschel was wise when he reminded us
Prayer cannot bring water to parched fields, or mend a broken bridge, or rebuild a ruined city; but prayer can water an arid soul, mend a broken heart, and rebuild a weakened will.
And so tonight, on this Shabbat before Thanksgiving—
We offer words of gratitude—
The world may well be on fire, but if we are wise— that fire will illuminate the goodness in ourselves and others, serving as a reminder that when we offer gratitude by acting with generosity and kindness, it can indeed, water our arid souls.
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