Tending Our Flames: Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20 - 30:10
“I’m so tired,” she said. “I’ve never been so tired before.”
“I’ve done this before,” they whispered, “and I’ll do it again. But I so wish I didn’t have to.”
“I can’t even think right. I haven’t been able to read a book in months.”
“I’m scared,” he told me before finally letting himself cry.
“What if I tell people that today is a good day, and then they think that everything is fine, that my very sick child isn’t so sick after all, what if they go away?”
“I know this will be hard,” she wrote, “and I know I can do hard things.”
“This is it, I can’t fight anymore,” they texted me. “I’m afraid people will think I gave up. Lost some stupid battle.”
“I have a good attitude,” he let out a long breath, “but it also sucks so much. I’m lonely. I know hospitals are scary, but I wish people would visit me and not just like my stuff on Facebook.”
Maybe it’s the nature of who I am and the work I do. Or maybe this is just so many of us. In the past few weeks, I’ve listened to and sat with and talked with many people whose flames are flickering low. In Tetzaveh, our Torah portion this week, we read:
“You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly. Aaron and his sons shall set them up in the Tent of Meeting, outside the curtain which is over the Ark of the Pact, to burn from evening to morning before Adonai. It shall be a due from the Israelites for all time, throughout the ages.” Exodus 27:20-21
“Kindling the lamps regularly” in Hebrew is לְהַעֲלֹת נֵר תָּמִיד.
Le’ha’alot ner tamid isn’t actually about kindling, though.
Rami bar Hama taught that the requirement was to light the candelabrum so that the flame ascends of itself when it is kindled, and not that it ascends by means of something else. In other words, by adjusting the wick. (Shabbat 21a)
The light - the ner - is eternal - tamid. Aaron’s job is to attend to it.
Aaron is a kohain. He’s a priest.
This duty of the kohanim to attend to the Ner Tamid is expressed with this verb - le’ha’alot - that doesn’t actually mean “to light”. “To light” is lehadlik - like the Shabbat candle blessing. Instead, le’ha’alot literally means ‘to cause to rise up’ or ‘to elevate’. So every evening Aaron goes into the tabernacle and lights the seven lamps of the menorah so that they will burn and shine through the night, and ‘elevate’ the Ner Tamid - the light that is eternal. This terminology for lighting the lamp appears in the Torah only in reference to the service of the menorah, and the language is precise.
How can it be that an eternal light needs regular tending? Isn’t it perpetual?
Our great medieval commentator, Rashi, curious about the unusual verb in – Le’ha’alot Ner Tamid, also had questions. He taught “one should deal with the flame and tend it so that it rises on its own.” Seemingly, Aaron would not actually relight the Ner Tamid, he would have to nurture it, maybe by trimming the wick or adding the oil, until the flame rose with strength on its own. Perhaps then this instruction to Aaron about the raising of the light of the Ner Tamid is not about illumination or lighting a lamp, and is instead about nurturing an existing flame. Maybe his charge was daily renewal, and maybe the lamp was a symbol of something more profound.
According to the teachings of Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the priest’s mitzvah of tending to the ner tamid is to tend the wick so the fire can burn on its own much like the task of a Torah teacher which is to make one’s self superfluous. We are, according to Rabbi Hirsch, asked, maybe even obligated, to teach such that in time our students no longer need us.
Which makes me want to know, what is this lamp? And what is this light?
We are taught that the Blessed Holy One said, “You watch over My lamp, and I will watch over yours” and when we ask, “What is the lamp of the Blessed Holy One?” Proverbs 6:23 has an answer for us: It is the Torah, as is written: “For the mitzvah is a lamp, the Torah is a light”. And what is ‘the Torah is a light’? Often a person’s heart would like to perform a mitzvah but their yetzer hara says to them: ‘Why should you perform a mitzvah and reduce your wealth? Instead of giving [your wealth] to others, give it to your own child!’ The good inclination tells them: ‘Give for the mitzvah. See what is written, “For the mitzvah is a lamp’. Just as a lamp, when lit, even a million candles made of wax or fat can be lit from it, so whoever gives for a mitzvah does not lessen their possessions. Maybe God’s lamps are the Torah and the mitzvot. But then Proverbs 20:27 has something to say, too. “The lamp of God is the lifebreath, the soul, the neshamah, of a person.” So maybe God’s lamps are us, our soul-selves. “You watch over Mine, and I will watch over yours,” we are taught. Reciprocity.
However we make sense of this, tending these lamps is our job. You see, it isn’t only Aaron and his decendants who are priests. Back in Exodus 19:5-6 we learn that we are to be a kingdom of priests, and a holy nation. Elevating one another’s light? That’s up to us. So I want to invite us to read it this way: We are the lamps and we are the ones charged with tending them. It is not our job to create sparks of life. It is our job to nurture life sparks for one another so that each and all of our flames can rise.
As I’ve recently listened to and sat with so many people who’s flames need nurturing, folks who are sick, whose loved ones have died, whose children are sick, who are caregivers, who have family members who are struggling, who are struggling themselves, I hear that they are tired, and lonely, and weary, and scared, and crying, and worried about being abandoned, and determined, and afraid, and hopeful, and distressed. And many of them are trying to pretend that they are okay so they don’t burden or scare other people. They are posting funny memes on Facebook. They are sharing pictures of themselves facing the worst with their best. They are masking. They aren’t asking for more support because they feel they should be grateful for the support they already have. They are posting beautiful landscape pictures and poetry because it brings them comfort and joy and hope. They aren’t sharing much of anything for fear that no matter what they say people won’t really see them.
Years ago, I learned from my teacher and flame-tender Scott Fried that more than anything most of us need to hear that we are seen and one of the most tender gifts we can give one another is to say - in every way we know how - I see you, I want you, I choose you, I pick you, I think about you, I want to know you, I believe you, I’m here to listen to you, I’m glad you are on my team, I am on your team, you are important to me, you matter to me, I’m not going away, there is space for all of you with me, I’ll show up for you, you can be who you are with me, I hear you, I care about you, and I remember you when I’m not with you.
I know it can be hard to know how to respond in the face of serious illness, grief, loss, and fear. I don’t have all of the answers, but I do have some experience with being seriously ill, with grieving, with loss, and with being afraid. I’d like to offer some suggestions.
First, what if we are reaching out and aren’t sure how to start a conversation or offer connection?
If it’s me you are reaching out to, here’s what works - I find these ideas often work for other people, too:
“How are you right now/in this moment?” For me this question is so much more manageable than “How are you?” “How are you?” is too big for me. It covers too much, and probably I have no idea how to answer. How am I since the the last time we talked? Existentially? With whatever it is that is happening in my life? “How are you right now?” means I know you get that how I am might be changing all the time. It means I know you get that even if I’m doing okay right now it’s very possible that I wasn’t just a few moments ago and I might not be okay again in the near future.
“Is there anything you wish someone would ask you so you could talk about it?”
“Do you want to talk about the things going on, or do you want me to distract you with stories about a show I’ve been watching?” (Or literally anything else.)
“Hey, so, I have no idea what to say, but I care about you, and I’m here, and I just wanted to text/call/write/show up and say so.”
“Want to sit on the phone together while we both watch the same movie/tv show/listen to the same book?”
“Do you feel like swearing? I might feel like swearing. Want to swear together?”
And the VERY person and situation specific, creativity required reach out: “You are getting a lot of blood transfusions. I can bring a vampire movie to watch together.” (One of the best ideas a friend of mine has ever had.)
But then, what if you are responding to someone telling you how they really are right now, in this moment? I have some ideas for that, too.
“I’m so tired,” she said. “I’ve never been so tired before.”
Yeah. With good reason. (And then take a deep and audible breath, being a living invitation for her to breathe, too.)
“I’ve done this before,” they whispered, “and I’ll do it again. But I so wish I didn’t have to.”
Of course. I’m here.
“I can’t even think right. I haven’t been able to read a book in months.”
Limited capacity is real. I hear you. It sucks. And I trust your fabulous brain is doing the best it can under the circumstances. The books will be there for you later if someday you want to pick them up again. And if you don’t, that’s okay, too.
“I’m scared,” he told me before finally letting himself cry.
I know. You don’t have to be okay for me. There is space with me for whatever you are feeling.
“What if I tell people that today is a good day, and then they think that everything is fine, that my very sick child isn’t so sick after all, what if they go away?”
(I breathe first and hum a validation.) That is so much to carry. I think we can hear that you have a very sick child, and that right now, in a particular moment, he is having a good day. I for sure can hear that. I think you can invite other people to hear it, too. Cancer sucks. I’m not going away.
“I know this will be hard,” she wrote, “and I know I can do hard things.”
I know it, too. It sucks that you have to.
“This is it, I can’t fight anymore,” they texted me. “I’m afraid people will think I gave up. Lost some stupid battle.”
I love you. I see you. I hear you. I’m sad. I’m here with you. Some people might say things like that. You and I both know better. I will always miss you.
“I have a good attitude,” he let out a long breath, “but it also sucks so much. And I’m lonely. I know hospitals are scary, but I wish people would visit me and not just like my stuff on Facebook.”
You don’t have to be okay for other people. You don’t have to be funny. You don’t have to have a good attitude all the time. It does suck. And of course you are lonely. And I also wish people realized they should come to you and be with you.
I know you, reading this, are very likely also tired.
I get it.
Me, too.
So many of us aren’t okay right now.
Some of us are really not okay right now.
Aaron wasn’t always okay, either. In a few weeks, two of his sons will die.
Neither was Moses. He had basically the opposite of work-life balance, brought childhood trauma with him everywhere he went, and the death of his sister Miriam almost shattered him the rest of the way. Esther? Not in the Torah, but in our seasonal story of triumph she is victorious on the one hand, and has to spend the rest of her life in the palace with the King who had her kidnapped and brought to him against her will.
I don’t know why it’s so hard.
But here we are, together, a kingdom of flame tenders.
It’s maybe our most important job to see through to each other. To know that cancer is scary even to the friend putting on the bravest face. To recognize that a smiling Facebook picture doesn’t mean a loved one isn’t lonely and doesn’t need us. To assume that the person in front of us needs to hear in one way or another that they matter to us. Especially because we are all so tired, we need to be with each other and tend to and elevate one another’s flames. Every day. For all time. Throughout the ages.
I believe if we are, our own flames will also rise - with strength.
Ken yehi ratzon.