אִם־בְּחֻקֹּתַ֖י תֵּלֵ֑כוּ וְאֶת־מִצְותַ֣י תִּשְׁמְר֔וּ וַעֲשִׂיתֶ֖ם אֹתָֽם׃
If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments,
וְנָתַתִּ֥י גִשְׁמֵיכֶ֖ם בְּעִתָּ֑ם וְנָתְנָ֤ה הָאָ֙רֶץ֙ יְבוּלָ֔הּ וְעֵ֥ץ הַשָּׂדֶ֖ה יִתֵּ֥ן פִּרְיֽוֹ׃
I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit…
These are the opening lines of this week’s Torah portion, Bechukotai. If we walk in God’s paths and keep God’s mitzvot, then we will receive rains in their season. If we walk in God’s paths and keep God’s mitzvot, then kinds of blessing and abundance will flow. And if we don’t listen, and we don’t keep the mitzvot, then all kinds of curses will ensue. (Torah goes into some detail here.)
This is the kind of problematic theology that caused the early Reform movement to remove the second paragraph of the Shema from our siddurim. Because we all know that following mitzvot is not a guarantee of prosperity and blessing, and that scarcity and tragedy are not signs of someone’s wickedness. We all know that bad things can happen to good people and vice versa.
But I want to look more closely at the parsha’s opening words. “If you walk in My paths…”
The Hebrew word for “My paths,” chukotai, shares a root with one of our words for mitzvot, chukim. That root means engraved or carved, which is why chukim is sometimes translated as engraved-mitzvot, or “commandments that engrave themselves on us.” So “if you walk in My paths” can also be rendered as “if you walk in My pathways that engrave themselves on you.”
My friend Rabbi Bella Bogart understands this verse to mean that if we walk in God’s pathways and let those pathways engrave themselves on us, then we will necessarily follow the mitzvot, the connective-commandments. It’s not that we walk in God’s ways and follow mitzvot and then blessings come; it’s that when we walk in God’s ways, we can’t help following the mitzvot.
And when we can’t help following the mitzvot, we receive blessing, because we will experience blessing in whatever unfolds. If we walk in God’s chukim, if we let God’s chukim engrave themselves on us, then we will experience blessing no matter what happens in our lives. It’s a matter of epistemology rather than ontology, how we feel rather than “what measurably is.”
Every week I study the writings of the Hasidic master known as the Sfat Emet with my Bayit colleagues, and this week I was struck by a riff on this verse. The Sfat Emet cites a midrash about King David, that wherever he intended to go — be it to somebody’s house, or off to war — his feet would carry him to the synagogue or the beit midrash, the house of study.
Now, on first blush this might look a little bit ridiculous. Because know that there were no synagogues or houses of study — at least not as we now understand them — in King David’s day! It’s as though the rabbis, who cherished the shul and the beit midrash, were trying to impose their own frame on a Biblical figure who didn’t know what either of those things were.
But the Sfat Emet quotes our daily liturgy to argue that God’s greatness and goodness fill the world. He says that God’s “greatness” refers to the ten utterances with which Creation began, and God’s “goodness” refers to the ten utterances we received at Sinai. To say, then, that “God’s greatness and goodness fill the world” is to reference both creation and revelation.
And Rabbi Art Green notes, in his translators’ notes, that there’s an unspoken conclusion to the Sfat Emet’s teaching. If the whole world is full of God’s glory, then every place we go can become a place of holy encounter with Torah and with God. King David, in this midrash, becomes our model for recognizing God’s greatness and God’s goodness wherever our paths may lead.
We can find God everywhere our paths take us. What a radically transformative idea that is. Every place we go — to work, to the grocery store, running errands, karate class, dance rehearsals, you name it — can become a place of holy encounter with Torah and with God. That’s what it means to walk in God’s engraved paths, and to let God’s paths engrave themselves on us.
When we let God’s paths engrave themselves on us, that changes how we experience the world around us. Then suddenly the gas station and the hardware store and our workplaces and our homes become the synagogue and the beit midrash, places of learning and places of prayer. Because we carry that lens of learning and prayer with us, wherever we go.
And when we carry learning and prayer with us wherever we go, then all the world is our beit midrash where we can marvel in awe and wonder at how much there is to learn — in Richard Levy’s words that we prayed this morning, “how much Torah unfolds from each new flower!” And all the world is our synagogue, where we can pour forth our hearts in prayer.
And that’s how the blessings promised in this week’s parsha come to pass. When we walk in God’s engraved pathways, when we let God’s engraved-pathways carve grooves of gratitude and wonder on our hearts, then all the world becomes our house of prayer and study, and everywhere we go becomes a place where we can encounter the Holy. Kein yehi ratzon.
This is the d’varling that Rabbi Rachel offered at CBI on Shabbat morning. (Cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.)