Waiting for Rain: Reflections at the Turning of the Year

Preface

Preface Surveying the parched earth at the end of a long, dry summer, the farmer waits for rain, as did his predecessors, who tilled the same fields before him. The cisterns are empty and the springs have ceased to flow; throats are dry and voices are muted. The season is replete with expectancy and yearning, with the hope for rain that is the hope for life. It is a time of reflecting on the past harvest gathered in, and anticipating harvests that may come. It is a moment poised on the edge of eternity. When the clouds finally burst and the first drops grace the ground, nature sighs with relief. The earth absorbs and ardently guards every drop, mysteriously transforming heavenly moisture into the power of life and sustenance. Plants begin to sprout, buds appear on trees, and flowers bloom. Man lifts up his voice in song, his prayers having been answered from on high. Rain is where heaven and earth meet. For as the rain and the snow fall from heaven And return not there, But soak the earth And make it bring forth vegetation, Yielding seed for the sower And bread for the eater. So is the word that issues from My mouth. It does not come back to Me unfulfilled, But performs what I purpose, Achieves what I sent it to do. (Isa. 55:10–11) [author’s translation] The poignant words of the prophet Isaiah highlight the parallel between rain and the word of God, which quenches our existential thirst and revitalizes our desiccated souls. The metaphor captures our xxi need for deliverance. Our souls are broken fields plowed by pain. We long for refreshment, for a renewal of faith in a world in which our beliefs have withered. We hope to recapture our sense of amazement and to rebuild our trust in ourselves, in others, and in our responses to life. We pray that truth—shadowed by death, despair, and vulnerability —will once again come to light. As the month of Tishrei draws to a close, the sun’s fierceness begins to abate. Cooler breezes at eventide promise respite from the summer’s scorching days. The afternoon shadows now offer a modicum of relief. Eyes turn heavenward looking for a wisp of cloud, for any clement harbinger of the first rains of autumn. But there is no surcease, no life-giving moisture to slake the thirst of the people and their flocks, or to revive the earth. As lonely wanderers in the great desert of life, we make our way across trackless wastes of meaninglessness, searching for oases of cooling drafts of spiritual refreshment, where we may imbibe deeply of the waters of the living God. The prayer for rain is an appeal for the revival of our souls. King David gives expression to the spirit of man, parched and yearning for God: My soul thirsts for You, My body yearns for You, In a sere and weary land that has no water. I shall behold You in the sanctuary And see Your might and glory. (Ps. 63:2–3) [author’s translation] This transition is paralleled by the mystical transformation of the Days of Awe. Rosh Hashanah becomes Hoshana Rabbah as, at the end of the day, the aravot fall to the ground and the white kittel is folded and put away for another year. The etrog is consigned to citron jelly and the lulav to fuel for burning the Passover hametz. Yom Kippur glides into Shemini Atzeret, which is characterized in talmudic law by a single practice: the insertion into our prayers of the simple declaraxxii
Preface tion, Mashiv ha-ruah u-Morid ha-geshem—God causes the wind to blow and the rain to fall. This, our first reflection at the turning of the year, is, in essence, the final prayer of the penitential season. And so our eyes seek the Master of the Universe, longing for Him to restore our spirits, just as He causes the rain to fall. Preface
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