Tag Archives: spring

What a Swing Set Measures

For almost twenty years the wooden swing set had been standing in our back yard.  The wood beams and metal jousts gracefully and patiently bore the passage of time, the vagaries of the weather, the hot sun of summer, the cold and snow of the winter months. For many years the swing set was busy.  It would creak with delight when children were swinging on its bright blue swings, laughing and trying to reach the sky above them.  Its crow’s nest was host to various clubs and secret societies. Meetings took place there where important topics were discussed, like the best way to eat a grilled cheese sandwich, or what might be the perfect container for a pine cone collection.

In those days the swing set was a hub of activity.  When the locusts swarmed one summer, its crow’s nest provided shelter from their flying, buzzing bodies.  One winter the snow piled so high the swings disappeared, and the children built a snow man to guard the old wooden structure until spring came and the snow melted away.  In the fall, when we built our sukkah, the swing set was just a few yards away, a welcome escape from the confining walls of our temporary harvest tent.  One year, in a high storm, the swing set watched stoically as our entire sukkah was blown over by a strong wind, almost laughing at the sukkah, as if to say ‘Look at me, I’ve been standing here for years, and this wind can’t even move me one inch.’

As the years went by trees grew up around the swing set.  A cherry tree’s branches intruded on the crow’s nest.  A strong maple grew up just behind the swings, so that children might feel they were swinging high up in the branches of a magical tree.  Finally a great willow grew swiftly, its massive branches blanketing the old structure in perpetual shade.

There were fewer and fewer visits to the swing set as the years passed.  Its crow’s nest was mostly silent and empty.  Squirrels scuttled across its top beams, but children rarely visited.  They were grown, too big for the swings, to old for such things as ‘crow’s nests’ and ‘secret clubs.’  The swing set became a kind of artifact.  It told stories.  Of a broken arm from swinging too high and landing too hard.  Of aimless summer days.  Of intricate projects and plans that were made and made again, but never implemented.  Of back yard barbecues and tie dye birthday parties.  Of watching young children grow.

We took the old swing set down this week.  Its time had come and gone, but it was a bitter sweet moment.  All of those memories wrapped up in its grooved and worn boards, its tattered canopy.  As it rested in the front yard, waiting for someone to come haul it away, a young woman drove by with her three young children in tow.  She noticed the aged crow’s nest, still proudly standing strong, bravely awaiting its fate.  ‘Were we getting rid of it?’ she wondered.  ‘And would we mind, if she could find someone to bring it down the street, if she gave that crow’s nest a new home?’

Just yesterday we walked around the neighborhood in the late afternoon.  It was an end of summer day, the sun warm and high in a bright blue sky, but the trees already starting to shed their leaves.  There at the bottom of the hill we saw the crow’s nest, tucked neatly away in a new back yard.  It was again surrounded by trees, not the old willow and maple, but evergreens that will guard it from the wind in the cold winter months.  Our neighbor scrubbed at the wood, working to sand it smooth so it would be ready for bare hands and feet.  It won’t be long.  Soon children will be playing there as they once did, and we will hear their laughter, as we walk by wondering where the past has gone, or if it has gone at all.  FullSizeRender 3

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Filed under community, continuity, liminal moments, memory, mindfulness, neighborhoods, Rabbi Steven Schwartz, seasons, Uncategorized

Bringing the Dead to Life

A couple of days ago the Wall Street Journal published an article by R. R. Reno entitled ‘the Profound Connection Between Easter and Passover.’  In the piece the author discusses the parallels between the two spring holidays, with their focus on new life, renewal, and resurrection.  For Christians these themes are explored through the lens of Jesus and the Gospel’s narrative of his life, death, and rising to life anew.  In Judaism for the most part the the hints are subtler – an egg and green vegetable on the seder plate, or the Haggadah’s introduction of Elijah, the figure Jewish tradition understands as the precursor to the messianic era.

But there is one Passover text that directly confronts the idea of resurrection.  On the intermediate Shabbat of the festival Jews around the world read the 37th chapter of Ezekiel, the well known narrative of the so called ‘dry bones.’  In one of the Hebrew Bible’s strangest narratives, the prophet is whisked away by God to a valley that is filled with desiccated human bones.  At God’s instruction Ezekiel speaks over the bones, and watches as they reconstitute, first bone to bone, forming intact skeletons, and then sinew, muscle, and flesh.  The last, and most important touch, is the breath of God.  “God said to me, prophesy, son of man, prophesy to the wind, say to the wind, ‘Thus said the Lord God:  Come, wind, from all four directions, and breathe into these slain ones, so that they might live.’”  Ezekiel proclaims God’s message.  The wind/breath fills the reformed bodies, and ‘they were alive, and they stood upon their feet, and exceedingly vast army!’

What are we to do with such material?  Certainly as modern, educated people living in the 21st century we are not expected to believe it literally.  A valley of bones coming back to life?  How can this be?  So we reject the plain meaning of the text, and instead read Ezekiel’s vision as a metaphor.  It is about the people Israel, during one of the most difficult and dangerous moments of its existence, when many believed the ancient covenant with God had been shattered.  In this context Ezekiel’s message is clear:  Israel as a nation will survive, will come back to life, will be rebuilt, and will once again be vital and strong.  Like the bones in the valley, the Jewish people will be reconstituted and God’s ancient covenant will survive.  With this understanding we can comfortably read the text as parable, draw meaning from it, and at the same time satisfy our modern intellectual sensibilities.

That is the way I’ve always read the Ezekiel dry bones passage.  Passover does focus on themes of renewal and resurrection, and the holiday is tied into the coming of spring and the rebirth of the world, the growth of crops, the blooming of flowers and blossoming of trees.  The Ezekiel text is chosen for Passover not because it is about bones coming back to life, individuals being revivified, but because it reminds us that the potential for life is locked into everything around us, and the coming of spring releases that potential.  And in general when I encounter Jewish texts about resurrection I read them as metaphor or parable.  So for example in the opening paragraphs of the amidah, when we sing about מחיה המתים , about bringing the dead back to life, I’ve always understood that to be a reminder of the work I have to do in my life to make the world the kind of place the Messiah would want to come to.  But I’ve never believed that one day actual bodies would come back to life.

All that being said, as they say live and learn, and this morning I would like to suggest another way that we might think about these resurrection texts in our tradition, where we don’t have to use metaphor to find meaning in them.  And by way of introducing that idea I would like to tell you a story about a famous baseball player, one of the all time greats, named Rod Carew.  I am sure many of you remember him – he played 19 years in the majors, mostly at 2nd base, and 18 of those 19 years he was an all star.  He retired with a career batting average of .328, and in 1991 he was elected to the baseball hall of fame.

About a year and a half ago Rod Carew had a major heart attack.  He survived, but his heart was damaged to the point where he had only a limited time to live, unless he could receive a heart transplant.  And as his heart got worse, his kidney started to fail.  Doctors told him he would need a new heart – and a new kidney – in order to survive.  He was put on the transplant list, fairly high priority, and he waited.

Three months ago Carew got a call.  A young man – 29 year old – had died suddenly, of a brain aneurism, and he was a match.  Carew went in for the surgery – double transplant!  Heart and kidney.  He did well, recovered his strength, left the hospital, and is getting stronger and stronger at 71.

Carew wanted to know who the young man was who had saved his life.  He was able to track down the man’s name – Konrad Reuland.  Those of you who are very, very devoted Ravens fans might recognize that name – he was a professional football player, and on the Ravens practice squad in 2014.  Just this week Carew met Konrad Reuland’s mother, he wanted to express his gratitude for what her son had done in saving his life.  She brought a stethoscope with her to the meeting, asked Carew if it would be OK, she placed it on his chest, and for a few precious seconds listened once again to her son’s heart beat.  Think of that story for a moment –  Rod Carew on the verge of death, saved by a young man’s heart and kidney, and then the mother of that boy, still grieving from his loss, and yet able to hear her son’s heart beat, and knowing that another person was alive because of what her son chose to do, to be an organ donor – and maybe in all of that, in some way, מחיה המתים – the dead do come back to life.

Of course one moral of the story is that we should all be organ donors.  There was a time when this was frowned upon in the Jewish community, but a few years ago the Conservative Movement came out to say not only are Jews permitted to be organ donors, it is in fact a mitzvah – a commandment – that a Jew should be an organ donor, because it is an opportunity to save another human being’s life.  So if you are not an organ donor, make that change on your driver’s license the next time you have the opportunity and become one.

But also the story reminds us that there are more mysteries in this universe, even in our own world, than we could ever count or understand.  Many of those mysteries come at the precise intersection of life and death, and whether we understand them or not, we do know that we all share in them, and we know they unite us in a common humanity, and in our search for what is holy in our world and in our lives.

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Filed under Beth El Congregation, Bible, holidays, Jewish festivals, preaching, Rabbi Steven Schwartz, sermon, Uncategorized

Rolling Clouds

The great clouds rolled back reluctantly, west to east, slowly giving way to blue skies and a gently setting sun.  It was the first glimmer of sunshine we had seen in some time.  Days for sure.  Maybe even weeks?  Some vast storm front had blanketed the northeast, stretching from Maryland to Maine.  Rain every day.  Grey skies.  Starless nights and an ever dimming daylight.  At first it was daunting, tiring, people kvetched and fretted, it dampened our spirits, wearied out souls.  But then it went on for so long it almost became  the new normal.

I watched the clouds as they moved.  It seemed to me they cast dark glances back towards the light that defiantly rose, illuminating almost as if for the first time newly grown flowers, blossoming trees, thick grass, all the promise of spring.  The clouds would be back no doubt, but for those few hours they were banished.  My dog craned his head slightly higher, pointing his snout into the wind, sensing the change, picking up the scents that told him of growth, warm days, fertile soil, the summer to come.  We paused together and a soft wind rustled the tree tops, leaves magically springing to life, sharp and verdant greens highlighted against the sky’s deep blue.

There is a favorite scene of mine from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.  The Lady Eowyn has been grievously injured in battle.  In due time she recovers from her physical injuries, but she also suffers from a broken heart.  And this, as we all know, is more difficult to mend.  The gentle and courageous Faramir, a warrior who is also filled with deep wisdom, visits her daily.  Together they stand on the ramparts of the great city of Gondor, looking to the east.  Then there is a moment where Eowyn understands that she feels love again, that she can again become whole:  “Then the heart of Eowyn changed, or else at last she understood it.  And suddenly her winter passed, and the sun shone on her.”

Perhaps it is not change so much as understanding that enables our hearts to open up again, to be healed.

A last vignette.  Morning minyan.  I am sitting in my regular spot, at the back.  Two widows who have just recently lost their beloved husbands sit together, searching for hope and healing in the context of ancient words and rituals.  They silently share their burden.  Then I see one of the women lean closer to the other, whisper a few words.  They smile, one to the other, in that private moment.  There is just a bit more light in the sanctuary.  And, I hope, in their wounded hearts.

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Filed under Beth El Congregation, community, dogs, grief, Jewish life, liminal moments, loss, ritual, Uncategorized

What a Difference a Day Makes

Here in Maryland we’ve had a harder than usual winter, and the old man seems to want to hang on for everything he’s got.  Generally at this time of year the trees are greening and some folks have even mowed their lawns already, but we just finished a weekend that was at best miserable weather-wise.  Temperatures struggled to get out of the 30s, and it poured rain virtually non-stop for 48 hours.  Just to make sure we all know who is in charge the rain unexpectedly changed to snow mid-afternoon yesterday, and a ‘wintry mix” (this is evidently a technical term favored by weather reporters) fell into the evening.  I walked the dog yesterday afternoon, wind howling, rain, sleet, and snow coming down, about 35 degrees.  Just lovely.  If this is spring who needs winter?!

What a difference a day makes!  Just an hour ago I walked the dog, and he happily sniffed his way around the neighborhood on a lovely early spring evening.  Clear skies, gentle breezes, low 60s.  People were out, washing cars, trimming trees, actually looking for excuses to spend some time out of doors with the promise of a real spring in the air.  Even the home team won on opening day.  Go Os!  What a difference a day makes indeed.

We might say the same thing about life.  If there is one thing I’ve learned in the rabbinate it is that things can change on a dime.  One phone call, and your whole life can be turned upside down.  You can go to bed at night with everything fine in your world, and wake up in the morning with overwhelming challenges confronting you.  But the opposite is also true.  A new day can bring a change in the weather for the better.  An unexpected helping hand, a sudden realization that there is blessing right in front of you, a phone call from an old friend.  

So often it is the small things that  help to reorient our dark days.  Dark clouds do clear away.  The snow (and even the rain) does stop eventually.  Spring comes, and with it the promise of redemption.  ‘Next year in Jerusalem’ we say at the end of the seder.  A place where each soul is on a higher plane.  And on Opening Day there is always a promise in the air.  Not next year in Jerusalem, but this year, the World Series!

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