Ha’azinu 5780 The Truth Behind The Words Betsy Forester

Lately, a number of people have asked for my advice about what to say to people in different kinds of situations. Others have spoken with me in the aftermath of words spoken in anger or sadness, trying to understand the messages the words themselves did not convey. I, too, have struggled to express what was in my heart, and I have also worked hard to hear and understand other people’s testimonies. Whether it be about commitment, disappointment, romantic interest, or anger, there is no end to how we confound ourselves in trying to find the right words to say what we need to say and trying to make sense out of what others say to us.

Today’s is comprised mostly of a long poem, or song, that Moshe has composed as his final address to B’nei Yisrael. He is about to die. He has led them, taught them, judged them, defended them against God’s wrath, suffered with them, and suffered from them. By the end of the ’s fifth Book, Moshe is deeply concerned for the nation’s future, not wanting them to be like a flock of wandering sheep without a shepherd to guide them. He is at once hopeful of how great they can be and despairing of how miserably they may fail.

It’s the moment of truth, his very last words to this nation. HIs poem, or song, is supposed to get inside the People. As God has directed, “Put this song in their mouths,” “so that the words may become a witness for Me against them.” In God’s view, Moshe’s final words should testify to the nation that they have been fairly warned about the seriousness of their covenant with God. If and when they stray from keeping up their end, they will have this poem in their heads to remind them to get in line or suffer the consequences.

Our commentators suggest that Moshe hopes that the people he had led and loved for all those years will rally on his behalf and tell God that he must go with them, at least ​ ​ just to see the Promised Land up close with his own eyes and to stand on its sacred soil. In the rabbinic mind, Moshe has yearned for their support and still wishes it. That is quite a different intention from what God wants Moshe to convey! Our sages do not love the idea that Moshe’s last words should be harsh and foreboding. I agree with them.

What do you think Moshe hopes will happen after he speaks his final words to the nation? If I were Moshe, I would hope for some public acknowledgement and a ​ ​ statement of commitment on the part of the people. If I were in his sandals, I would have ​ ​

1 wanted the nation I had led for over 40 years to tell me that they loved me, they learned from me, and they would take my teaching with them. And the people’s response is...not that. In fact, we have no idea how the nation responds. All we here is their deafening silence, as if there is no response at all, no thank you, not even goodbye.

Back in Parashat Va’etchanan, Moshe gets a similar lack of response, that time from ​ ​ God. There, Moshe makes a formal request that God allow him to enter with his nation. His prayer to God is beautifully composed, simple, and balanced..and rejected. There, and here, Moshe composes something eloquent, and yet it does not seem to land.

I want to suggest that Moshe is not speaking genuinely enough. He is too composed. He is not raw enough. He is too articulare to be believed. As a result, his words do not seem move his audience.

It is not easy to strike the right balance between formally structured words and raw words. As your rabbi, I want to bring a Torah to you that moves all of us. You have seen me speak passionately. Some of you have seen me run through the sprinkler and then daven my heart out. You know I can bring passion. And yet I still write my divrei Torah, ​ ​ every word. I still am afraid, most of the time, that I will either leave something out or get off track if I speak extemporaneously. I try to write as if I am speaking, and as I deliver them, I tweak what I have written, but the truth is that I’m still working out the balance between being full-on in the moment, and being more refined and organized.

And you, too, are still working out what you want to hear. Some of you tell met that you appreciate an organized d’var Torah with a beginning, middle, and end, with sources neatly mixed in. Others love it when my heart explodes over how I believe we are called to show up in this world. I am told that some of you come to hear my divrei Torah. And I am fairly sure that some of you just want to get to kiddush. (Sounds like a shul!) So, we are all still working out that balance.

Do you know when Moshe speaks most efficaciously? I think it happens in two places. The first appears after the Sin of the Golden Calf, when God wants to wipe out the nation, and Moshe begs God not to do that. Rabbi Eliezer says that that Moshe prays so hard that he has fire in his bones (Bavli B’rakhot 32a). And God relents, and does not destroy the nation. The second instance comes when God strikes Miriam with leprosy. Moshe cries out, “El na, r’fa na lah!” “God, please, heal, please, her!” The words are so ​ ​ raw that they exit his lips out of order, the word “please!” bursting from his heart, fervently interrupting the flow of the words “heal her.” “Heal her” is too plain, too

2 ordered. But God, please, heal, please, her--that is a prayer that stops one in their tracks. That is the greatest leader in Israelite history calling out in desperation because he loves his sister and doesn’t want her to suffer. And God heals her, then and there.

Moshe so wants to enter the Land. Moshe so wants his flock to hear him and show him that they have learned, they will carry forward his legacy, that they feel invested in him. And yet his words, while poignant, lack urgency. Moshe made the ask and God did not move. Now, with the nation, Moshe reads a poem, his last words to them, and they have no response.

Yet there would also have been a measure of risk if Moshe had spoken more urgently about his wishes. Sometimes, raw speech is too harsh or unregulated, and its effects can be painful, even disastrous. Other times, though, genuine expression of our purest and most raw needs generates connection and commitment that formal words do not.

Now, let’s think just about today’s parashah. On the speaking side, Moshe offers a ​ ​ parting poem to a nation that he loves, when he is distraught over his impending death and concerned about his legacy. His anxiety comes out in his words, which are not entirely pleasant, and at points quite caustic. On the receiving side, the parasha begins with the word “Ha’azinu,’ which means, “Listen.” Moshe is calling all of Heaven and ​ ​ Earth to listen to him. The nation stands before Moshe, and they listen--but the text ​ ​ ​ ​ gives no evidence that they hear. There is a concept in feminist work called “hearing ​ ​ someone to speak.” It means that the way in which we listen elicits the genuine truth a person wants to share but cannot share without first being heard.” We have our own words for that, from King : “Adonai s’fatai tiftach ufi yagid t’hilatecha.” That is the ​ ​ verse we say, usually silently, before the . It means, “My God, open my lips and my mouth will declare Your praise.” On the surface it sounds strange; if God makes us say whatever we are saying, then isn’t it really God’s words and not ours? But I don’t think that’s what David means when he says it. Our hasidic masters suggest that what’s happening in that verse is that God hears our our pre-formed thoughts, our inner point of vitality, and helps us to shape it into words.

The great tragedy of today’s parashah, as I see it, is that our ancestors might not have ​ ​ been able to hear the truth behind Moshe’s words, just as God might also have failed to hear the truth underlying his words earlier. They get stuck in the words and they didn’t get to the intention and emotions from which they spring. I know that I do that sometimes. I am a person who loves words and usually chooses them carefully. I’m also a person who has graded hundreds of middle school essays and have done some peer coaching in writing. So when people tell me things, sometimes I focus more on

3 their words than on what they are trying to say, and I miss the emotional message that their words failed to reveal. I heard a great quote last summer: “I started getting along with people better when I stopped listening to what they were saying.” I could relate to that! And here we have the entire nation of Israel not getting the message, and their leader, who wants to speak to their hearts, reading a poem that does not show them that he cares.

Only after his poem is done does Moshe find the words to say what is most important: “This is not a bunch of empty words. I’m talking about your very life! I am telling you how to endure on the land that you are going to possess” (Dev. 32:47). I can’t speak for the ancient , but I can tell you that if I had just listened to Moshe’s poem, I would have been too checked out to hear the most important words that he throws in afterward.

Speaking and listening are much more complicated than we might think. Moshe’s parting poem today, coming on the heels of his unrequited plea to enter the Promised Land, gives evidence of the tension between what we can accomplish with formal speech versus extemporaneous, emotion-driven speech, and the tension between listening to the words people say and hearing what they really mean. I do not think I am alone in experiencing these tensions as some of the most frustrating aspects of living in a world with other people.

I hope that we can continue to work on becoming people who have the courage to voice our truths in words not too raw and not too overdone. I hope we can continue to work on being a community that seeks to hear the human beings behind the words we say. I hope that we can continue to seek the truth respectfully, passionately, and compassionately. ​

Let us respect the effort and the difficulty and try to be gentle with one another.

I’m pretty talked out right now. But I think I am saying something we really need to hear. So, at the risk of being pedantic, I’ll say it again: Let us respect the effort and the difficulty of saying things the right way, and the effort and challenges of hearing the heart and soul of the one who is speaking. I pray that we can, and most of all, I pray that we can be gentle with one another, because each of us is holy, this is a holy place, and we have sacred and important work to do together.

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