The Full Moon of Elul

WordPress’s Daily Post reminded me that today is the full moon — which means tonight will begin the fifteenth of Elul. As my last High Holy Day season (God willing) as a cantorial student approaches and the first of Tishrei skulks around the corner, I am torn between gleeful excitement and terrifying anxiety.

Elul, the last month of the Jewish year if you count from Rosh Ha-Shanah (in Tishrei) and the sixth month of the year if you count biblically (from Nisan), is meant to be a season of repentance, reflection, and soul-searching. We customarily recite Psalm 27 twice every day: once in the morning, once in the evening. In the morning, our recitation is preceded by a loud and often startling shofar blast, followed by these words: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? / The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” … “Hope in the Lord, be strong, brace your heart with courage, and hope in the Lord.”

The words of Psalm 27 linger with the ringing echo of the ram’s horn. The first and last verses of this poem, which I quoted above, are not the whole story. The Psalmist begins whole, with full confidence in his God, but then his reality begins to unravel. “When evil-doers come close to me, to eat my flesh,” (Ps. 27:2) all “adversaries and foes” fall when the Lord protects our poet. The reiteration of this confidence in the subsequent verses feel a bit like the lady doth protest too much. When all of these atrocities happen to the Psalmist in verses 2-6, despite everything, he continues to have faith in the Lord. It’s cocky on one hand, and feels almost sarcastic on the other. The celebration in spite of atrocities seems rote, forced.

Confidence fails the poet in verse 7. “Hear God, my voice calling; be gracious to me, and answer me.” Where is the surety? Where did God go? Where has the poet misplaced his faith? The Psalmist in the subsequent verses begins searching for God, whose face is hidden from him; he begs for God’s attention and support. The insecurity is palpable, relatable. Not every day can one be as confident as the Psalmist was in verse 1 of this text.

The hope — not security — in God’s protection at the end of Psalm 27 shows the maturity res of surviving a struggle. It is the larger story of the biblical Israelites, who first knew God face-to-face at Sinai but then needed to rediscover Him for themselves in subsequent generations.

It is with this meditation that I see the full moon of Elul.

Repentance is not about the security of forgiveness, it is about hope. The angst of anticipating an apology is worth the growth, and worth the potential repair of relationships even if not in the short-term. My heart races with thrill and fear equally as I look forward to my station as shelichat tsibbur this Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur knowing that I am so blessed to be the catalyst for the prayer experiences of my congregation while, as always, feeling the weight of carrying the congregation on my shoulders – musically, textually, spiritually. Then again, they carry me also: with their collective energy, song, and spirit. I have learned to trust my congregation for their positivity, their attentiveness, their faith.

As I stare at the full moon tonight, knowing that when it disappears for the very next time a new year will dawn, I will think about how I am different. Not different just by virtue of the full moon as the Daily Post suggests, but different by virtue of a full year of growth and change. With a full year since the last time I stood at my High Holy Day pulpit, I am quite aware of my personal development. In some ways, for worse; in other ways, for better.

We are all different than we were a year ago at this time. We all improve in the future from reflecting upon what is past, both failures and successes. No guarantees, except that hope in ourselves, in our future successes, and in God, is always worth our energy. “Hope in the Lord, be strong, brace your heart with courage, and hope in the Lord” (Ps. 27:14).

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Who am I in God’s Picture?

Tekhines

by Hinda Tzivia Eisen, summer 2013.

I feel insignificant.

When God is infinite, and there are seven billion people in the world, how much audacity must I have to believe that God pays attention to me? How selfish to think I deserve for Him to heed me.

And yet, I do. I do believe that I am in God’s consciousness. I do believe He checks in on me when I call. And also when I am not looking — like a parent who checks in on a sleeping child.

So I vacillate between feeling deeply tiny in this Universe, and feeling a bloated sense that my God is with me.

Even in the best of times we must choose the torch we carry wisely, and we must be careful who we choose to illumine.

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