Think.
With an open mind

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On this Shabbat between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we read, as we have just done, a special haftarah, which calls on us “Shuvah Yisrael ad Adonai Eloheicha” “Return, O Israel to the Eternal One, your God.” Shuvah – return! It is this imperative of Hosea, which gives this week’s Shabbat its special name – Shabbat Shuvah.

Tradition dictates that I, the preacher, shall call on you on this Shabbat especially to return – to do the work of repentance. But I can’t help myself but think – it feels like we’ve been here all year beating our chests, waiting, but where is God?

In my Erev Rosh Hashanah sermon, I spoke about embracing the gift of stillness to be able to hear God calling. How hard that has been since 7 October – it’s as if the noise of rockets and red alerts, the cry of the families of the hostages drowned out any chance of holding still enough to hear God calling.

And so, instead of calling on you, I want to call “Shuvah Adonai ad Yisrael Ameicha” – “return O Eternal One to Israel, your people.” Yet, I’m afraid that even if I were to shout it at God, the noise would backfire, further drowning out any chance of hearing God.

How can we respond to the feeling of God’s absence?

Well, I guess the good news is that we are in the company of our ancestors throughout time. All the way back in biblical times, our Torah portion talks about hester panim – literally, God hiding God’s face. Or as the prophet Isaiah observes: “Truly, You are a God who hides Yourself.”

The philosopher Martin Buber adopts the biblical term hester panim, translating it with the beautiful metaphor “the eclipse of God.” In his book of the same title, Buber writes: “When history appears to be empty of God, … it is difficult for an individual and even more, for a people, to understand themselves as addressed by God. … During such times the world seems to be irretrievably abandoned to the forces of tyranny.”

Buber was reflecting on the Holocaust, but how true his words still ring today. And yet, Buber’s teaching about the eclipse of God does not simply try to provide an explanation for God’s apparent absence. Rather by comparing this divine eclipse to its solar equivalent, he observes something much more profound, highlighting that in an eclipse, it is not the thing that is hidden, which has changed. The sun does not hide itself from the earth, but rather the interference of the moon causes the eclipse. God is not absent, God has not changed, God is simply hidden from view.

But “why?” do we ask.

The portrayal of the eclipse of God in the Bible suggests that God’s hiding is a punishment. In the words of the prophet Ezekiel (39:24): “When I hid My face from them, I dealt with them according to their uncleanness and their transgressions.” Reversely, of course, being granted the gift of revelation is the ultimate blessing – think of the famous words of the priestly benediction. The second blessing, which our siddur translates as “May God look kindly upon you and be gracious to you” reads – ya’eir Adonai panaiv eileicha vi’chunneika – literally, may God show God’s face to you and be gracious to you.

But real life is not as straightforward to align with a simple reward and punishment theology. And so, in a remarkable emotional inversion, the Talmud records that the first-generation Amora Rav (3rd cent. C.E.) saw God’s hiddenness as a sign of divine favor (b. Chagiga 5a):

Rav Bardela son of Tavyumi said in the name of Rav: “All who are not the object of ‘hidden of face’ are not of them (i.e. Israel)…”

About fifteen centuries later, R. Moshe Chaim Ephraim of Sudilkov, the grandson of the famous Chasidic master Ba’al Shem Tov, expresses his astonishment at the idea of God being hidden from Israel:

This is at first a great wonder: How is it possible that the blessed Holy One would hide his face from Israel, God forbid?! And how could they survive and rebuild themselves, since the very lives of the Jewish people is to be the nation to which God is close, for they are called God’s children! (Degel Machaneh Ephraim, Vayellech)

To answer his own question, Rabbi Ephraim uses a parable in the style of his grandfather to paint a picture of what God intends when hiding from Israel:

But here is a parable to a king that made many illusory barriers before his palace, to make it impossible to approach him, and he hid there. He made illusory barriers of fire and water, placing them all in his sons’ way.

And now, there was a wise son who thought about it, how is it possible that his kind father would not want to show himself to his beloved children. This must be illusory, and that their father merely wants to test whether his son will put in the effort to get to him. But really, there isn’t any hiding. So immediately, when the son decided to take the risk and approach, the illusory river disappeared and he passed through, and the same with all the other barriers, until he arrived at where the king was.

And there was a simple son who was afraid to start crossing the barriers. And there was one who passed through the water, but returned because of other barriers, like that of the fire. And the meaning of this parable is clear.

Whoever puts in the effort and passes through the barriers, and pushes himself until he gets to the king, that person will reach a higher level than before. This is what God meant [when God said to Jacob] “I will go down with you [to Egypt].” Meaning, when you take note and realized that even when going down, I am still there, i.e., when I hide myself from you, it is also for your benefit, then (ibid.) “and I will also go up even up with you,” meaning, that you will merit to reach a higher level, and this is the meaning of “even up.”

Like the Chasidic rabbis, Buber remains hopeful that the eclipse of God is not a terminal event, saying: “The eclipse of the light of God is no extinction; even tomorrow that which has stepped in between may give way” or as Buber’s student, the philosopher Emil Fackenheim put it: “The modern believer works and waits for an end to this eclipse.” (Quest for Past and Future, p. 243)

But how are we to cross the barriers of fire and water, how do we work toward an end to the eclipse?

I find myself back at the beginning of the sermon: even when it is hard, especially when it is hard, we have to find the courage to try to find stillness, to bring holiness into the world, one small act at a time – especially this year, to re-pledge our commitment to this task is maybe one of the most challenging aspects of T’shuvah – returning to God. And so, let me conclude with a prayer by the great Hebrew poet Leah Goldberg:

Lamdeini Elohai, Teach me, my God, to pray, and bless
The mystery of the withered leaf
No less than the splendour of ripe fruit;
For freedom to see, to feel, to breathe,
To know, to hope—and to fail.
Instruct my lips in blessing, song and praise
When time renews itself each dawn and night,
That my today be not as yesterday,
Nor any of my days become routine.