So what I have to say about this week, and this emergency, and the road ahead is: Who knows? Who knows what will happen and where this all will lead? Who knows who we might be on the other side? Who knows what sacrifices will be asked of us, and what hidden blessings are already being released into the Universe?
We are in a moment of topsy-turvy. Where high halls of government have less impact than the kindness of our neighbors. When physical isolation births intimate connection across miles. When restrictions on movement cause people to sing from balconies and lead yoga from rooftops.
Who knows what lies ahead? But whatever is ahead, the best of it will come from the people. We, the people, whose inspired ideas and skilled fingers will concoct new ways of being together, new ways of being, period.
You all know that I tend to lean toward the positive – a sunflower (or starlet) finding its light. And I don't want to make light here where it's unwarranted. I know that much of our casual talk about how we might structure our time – taking time to read and meditate, availing ourselves of the chance to just be – how much of that talk, while true and important, is also the privileged talk of those of us who have safe homes and heat and books and food. And I know it is not that way for everybody.
And I continue to be amazed at the people in our communities who are not at home but out finding ways to care for those who don't have safe homes or food. Gratitude to the people struggling to provide healthcare or maintain basic services for all of us or keep the supply chain running, even though they are also scared and have children at home with no school. And I am amazed by the many people in this room who are checking on neighbors and delivering soup, using their suddenly free time for acts of intimacy, connection, and kindness.
This is not a rosy time. But there is beauty in it that will keep arising. Everyday beauty and transcendent beauty.
And the beauty in this frightening time, is not government enacted. It is DIY, it is the people, with inspired ideas, wise hearts and skilled fingers.
This was a realization that came to me reading this week's Torah portion, Vayakhel. It is about the building of the mishkan – the holy place where the Divine Presence, the Shekhinah, will be palpable. The portion describes the Children of Israel buckling down and getting to work at last on building the lavish, ornate tabernacle, with precious metals and gems and threads of every color and the finest artisanry.
And one phrase in particular caught my attention:
וְכָל־אִשָּׁ֥ה חַכְמַת־לֵ֖ב בְּיָדֶ֣יהָ טָו֑וּ
"Every wise-hearted woman spun the thread with her own hands." (Exodus 35:25)
A beautiful sentence, with a couple of arguably unnecessary details. The verse could simply have read, "the women spun thread."
So why say chakhmat-lev – “wise-hearted” or “wise of heart?”
Our tradition understands the phrase as meaning "skilled". But it's more than talent, skill, or experience, although certainly all those things come into play. Chakhmat-lev suggests having a heart that is open to Chokhmah, to a kind of supernal wisdom that is so close to the Infinite Divine that there are no words for it or in it. This Wisdom is not made of words, strategies, plans, or clever ideas, even though those things might emerge from it a little bit further down the road. This is a non-verbal, pre-verbal inspiration that happens at a heart level, not a head level.
This emergency might demand just such inspiration from us. Because as long as we're trying to solve problems and cope with our changed lives on the level of planning and thinking, we will be trapped in those problems; everything will feel like a fix or an accommodation. But what new might come to us if we were to open on a heart level to this Chokhmah, to this breath of Divine Wisdom? What might infuse us, suffuse us, that might not have come to us if all we were doing was thinking?
And so that's an open question for us: how might we shut off the dizzying and numbing flow of words and information long enough to feel into our hearts, breathe into the Wisdom that pours through us? How might we keep that tap open in the difficult weeks and months ahead? Because this time will not always be cozy and novel. Money might run short; so might food and supplies. Can we keep our hearts open to the breath of Wisdom despite that?
Then there's that other arguably extraneous detail in our verse, Every wise-hearted woman spun the thread with her own hands. Why does Torah point out that the women spun with their own hands? How else would they have done it?
Maybe Torah is pointing out that while this Wisdom, this Chokhmah, might be in some way top-down, the making of holiness is bottom-up. It starts with the small actions, the work of our own devising and our own implementation. Spinning or weaving, writing or painting, gardening or baking, journaling, convening, singing on a balcony, sewing tapestry for the mikdash.
The work of holiness begins at home. It begins with our own actions. The product of our own hands. The work of holiness is going on all around us right now. Small acts that weave together into a fabric of great kedushah, great holiness. People teaching their children at home something different than they would have learned at school. People caring for others, despite the risks and restrictions. People sitting in circles together, albeit virtual circles, really looking into each other's eyes and hearing each other's words in ways that we don't always do when our schedules are busy with appointments and driving. People shifting their attention to small things – the sound of bees and the feel of spongy grass underfoot. A shift of awareness to the small and personal. A re-valuing of the intimate moment, even if the intimate moment is by Zoom and with someone on the other side of the world.
And starting from that place of intimate connection and person-sized action, we engage our fingers, like the Israelite women, our own fingers. Each of us working wool and spindle.
In this time, we the people, will create. We the people will lead – perhaps not policy, but a new sense of how to be. We the people will notice the value of less traffic, less travel, blue skies over Beijing and clear canals in Venice. We the people will remember the pleasure of a good conversation. We the people will make art and song. We will write laments and hymns and create entertainments. We will vibrate with the resonance of a whole planet, discovering the power of their hands. And we will, God willing, remember that feeling.
Who knows what will come of this? If we really open to Chokhmah, the Wisdom that is never farther than our own hearts. And if we employ our clever fingers, our mischievous minds, our hug-hungry arms. If we lead in this moment, who knows what holiness might burst forth?
Lo neda' mah na'avod et Yah ad bo'enu shamah. We won't know how we will serve the Divine until we get here. (Exodus 10:26). We don't yet know how we might redeem this tired species, how we might revive this ailing Earth, until we arrive. In every moment we live in this not knowing. And in every moment we are arriving.
In the hard times ahead and in the renewed times beyond, may we listen to our open hearts and trust our clever fingers to bring blessing to humanity, the Earth, and all life.