A few nights ago a friend reminded us that the Perseid meteors were going to be visible. So around 9pm we turned off all of our lights and went outside and lay on our backs on the deck and stared up at the sky. I knew it would take a while for my eyes to adjust.
From the moment I looked up at the heavens I was awestruck by the sheer number of stars. And I thought to myself: even if I don’t see any meteors, dayenu, it’s enough, because this is so beautiful. And then I saw one streak across the sky, and it was amazing.
I know that we are blessed to live in a place that doesn’t have a lot of “light pollution” — where we can turn off our lights and really see the night sky. And I know that the reason the stars were so visible is that there was almost no moon.
Because this weekend is Rosh Chodesh — new moon. Now the moon starts growing again. This is one of the things I love about being attuned to the Jewish calendar: it means I’m also always attuned to the phases of the moon as she waxes and wanes.
The moon will grow for two weeks, and shrink for two weeks, and the next new moon is Rosh Chodesh Tishrei, also known as Rosh Hashanah.
Rosh Hashanah is four weeks from this Sunday. Maybe for some of you that doesn’t sound like a big deal. So what? You’re not writing sermons or preparing services, so does it really make a difference to you? I want to say today that it can make a difference — and I hope that it will.
Our tradition teaches that this is a month during which we should deepen our spiritual practices, whatever they may be. This is a month during which we look back on the year now ending. Who have you been, since last Rosh Hashanah?
What are you proud of, and what do you feel ashamed of? When were you the best self you know how to be, and when did you fall short? How’s your relationship with God these days — whatever that word or idea means to you?
If we spend these next four weeks in introspection, discerning where we may have mis-stepped and where we forged a wise path, then when we get to Rosh Hashanah we’ll experience those two days of prayer and song and story in a different way.
If we spend these next four weeks rekindling our spiritual practices — be they yoga, or meditation, or prayer, or walking in the woods — then when we metaphorically call up God on Rosh Hashanah we won’t be afraid of hearing, “it’s been a whole year — nu, you don’t write, you don’t call…!”
One Hasidic teaching holds that Elul is the time when “the King is in the fields” — when God leaves the divine palace on high and enters creation to walk with us in the meadows and listen to the deepest yearnings of our hearts. God is extra-available to us this month. What do we most need to say?
Another Hasidic teaching points out that the name of this month, Elul, can be read as an acronym for Ani l’dodi v’dodi li — “I am my Beloved’s, and my Beloved is mine.” The Beloved, in this context, is God. We belong to God, and God belongs to us, and what connects us is love.
The stars are there every night, but we can only see them when there are no clouds and when the moon has dwindled. The opportunity to do the work of teshuvah, repentance / return, is there all year long — but some seasons of the year offer us special opportunities to see ourselves in a new light.
This is a time of month when the night sky is filled with tiny lights. And this is a time of year when we can open our hearts and souls to the light of God’s presence as we do the work of discernment and transformation. Imagine what we might see in ourselves if we take the time to let our eyes adjust.
Here’s to a meaningful Elul.
This is the d’var Torah (really more of a d’var zman, a word about the season) which I offered at CBI yesterday. (Cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.)