Dear Friends,
There are many kinds of deserts.
In Arizona there are cacti, in the Sahara there are thousands of miles of sand. Some argue that cities or villages without supermarkets are deemed “food deserts.” And, in our lives we also can have periods when we feel like we are amid a desert – perhaps lacking in emotional support, friendships or family.
Being in a desert is a central theme in Jewish life. This week, we commence reading the Torah’s fourth book, titled “Numbers,” in English, but called “Bamidbar,” “in the desert,” in Hebrew, which assigns a book or a portion of its title from the first significant word in the Book. This fourth book of Torah recounts our travels and challenges while trekking in the desert for forty years, wandering from Egypt to the gates of Canaan, or Israel. Yes, our people began our national existence in a place of extreme barrenness, and we have never, truly, left the desert experience behind.
As difficult as it is, there is something meaningful about being Bamidbar in the desert. Those who have spent time in seemingly desolate, hot, sandy deserts know that there are dramatic encounters afoot in the desert. A rare, passing cloud can offer the wondrous respite of shade, which may explain why the Torah described God’s presence as residing in a cloud during our journeying. As well, experiencing the odd flora which survives in deserts, soaking in the once-a-year rain and flowering from waxy pods, or the equally odd, stalwart insects and wildlife which find sustenance amid the hot sands and stones, reminds us that surviving in deserts requires adaptability and creativity.
So, too, when we find ourselves in human deserts, searching for support or kindness. This week, I spoke to a 64-year-old professional woman who just was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease and who felt shunned by her community. “No one talks to me,” she admitted. Her loneliness was palpable, and I spent 30 minutes talking to her, hearing about her plans for the next phases of her life, her children, and her unexpected uprooting from all that she had known. She was in a human desert. I hope that my speaking to her – and promising to do so regularly – was like a shower on her parched heart.
Yes, oddly there can be something meaningful about being Bamidbar, in the desert, when a passing cloud remains overhead. I’d like us to think about the moments when we have felt parched and dry and yearning for drops of care, and when we have, maybe even unknowingly, provided those droplets of periods of blessed shade.
Not only did the ancients spend time in the desert and arrive at the gates of the Land of Promise. That may be our lot, as well.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Douglas Kohn
There are many kinds of deserts.
In Arizona there are cacti, in the Sahara there are thousands of miles of sand. Some argue that cities or villages without supermarkets are deemed “food deserts.” And, in our lives we also can have periods when we feel like we are amid a desert – perhaps lacking in emotional support, friendships or family.
Being in a desert is a central theme in Jewish life. This week, we commence reading the Torah’s fourth book, titled “Numbers,” in English, but called “Bamidbar,” “in the desert,” in Hebrew, which assigns a book or a portion of its title from the first significant word in the Book. This fourth book of Torah recounts our travels and challenges while trekking in the desert for forty years, wandering from Egypt to the gates of Canaan, or Israel. Yes, our people began our national existence in a place of extreme barrenness, and we have never, truly, left the desert experience behind.
As difficult as it is, there is something meaningful about being Bamidbar in the desert. Those who have spent time in seemingly desolate, hot, sandy deserts know that there are dramatic encounters afoot in the desert. A rare, passing cloud can offer the wondrous respite of shade, which may explain why the Torah described God’s presence as residing in a cloud during our journeying. As well, experiencing the odd flora which survives in deserts, soaking in the once-a-year rain and flowering from waxy pods, or the equally odd, stalwart insects and wildlife which find sustenance amid the hot sands and stones, reminds us that surviving in deserts requires adaptability and creativity.
So, too, when we find ourselves in human deserts, searching for support or kindness. This week, I spoke to a 64-year-old professional woman who just was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease and who felt shunned by her community. “No one talks to me,” she admitted. Her loneliness was palpable, and I spent 30 minutes talking to her, hearing about her plans for the next phases of her life, her children, and her unexpected uprooting from all that she had known. She was in a human desert. I hope that my speaking to her – and promising to do so regularly – was like a shower on her parched heart.
Yes, oddly there can be something meaningful about being Bamidbar, in the desert, when a passing cloud remains overhead. I’d like us to think about the moments when we have felt parched and dry and yearning for drops of care, and when we have, maybe even unknowingly, provided those droplets of periods of blessed shade.
Not only did the ancients spend time in the desert and arrive at the gates of the Land of Promise. That may be our lot, as well.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Douglas Kohn
