9.20.26 – 3 Words to Focus On, Part 2

Malchuyot, Zichronot, Shofrot—and the very idea of a Yom HaDin, a day of judgment itself—all of these would really be the obvious characteristics of a day that commemorates the sound we heard at Sinai.

Sinai was the day when we recognized God as our husband; the day we crowned Him as King by stating, "Whatever You tell us to do, we will do" (Ex. 19:8; 24:7). Here they became a kingdom of priests (1 Pet. 2:5–9). There is no such thing as a kingdom without a king. On this day, Pentecost, God became more than a deliverer. He became their Husband and King, who would lead, love, and provide for the rest of their days.

You know, kingship is not such an easy concept for us moderns to wrap our minds around. To accept God as King is really to accept Him as our leader. It is to follow Him. To let Him lead us and His ways/Torah, which we gladly accepted.

There was a context for that acceptance, and the context goes all the way back to the first time we heard God's wordless voice. When we first heard that voice, we hid—and you would think we were hiding from God because we were afraid. But if you look carefully at the text, in some strange way we were actually hiding from ourselves. Yiker-doodles... foiled again :-)

We did not heed God's instructions in the Garden, we felt guilty, we could not face ourselves, and we hid. We wanted to be the rule makers, to determine good and evil. We wanted to be King. But that decision made us uncomfortable in our own skin, so we chose the itchy, milky fig leaves.

But as it turns out, after that sin we got a second chance of sorts—a chance to rectify that sin in the form of a voice, the only way really that God can reveal Himself to humans. After we had eaten from the tree, God approached us. The voice of God was strolling through the garden, coming closer, calling out to us—and that was an opportunity.

We had a choice then. We could have responded to that voice—how would history have been different if we had done so? If, instead of hiding, we had acknowledged that we had stepped out of bounds, if we had reached out to God in spite of that, if we had called out to God and said, "Here I am"—how would history have been different?

But we did not do that. Instead, we missed that chance, and that lost opportunity was maybe as tragic as eating from the tree in the first place. Adam's response to divine revelation was to hide; we humans hid, afraid of our own humanity, and we continued to play dress-up, imagining ourselves as the master.

Once we decided to play master, we were exiled from Eden. Then years passed, and as they did, human beings continued to think themselves the ultimate arbiters of good and evil. They continued to identify right and wrong with what they liked and did not like, with disastrous results.

Indeed, Israel itself, just before Sinai, became the latest victim of this delusion while they were oppressed in Egypt. What did the Egyptians think of that? They thought it was okay—no moral qualms there. "This is the way things should be; these Israelites, they are strangers, not even really human." That is the way it seemed to the Egyptians, through their view of good and evil.

Now, at Sinai, God declares: I have taken you out of Egypt and I have brought you on eagle's wings to Me, and now I have one question for you: im shamo'ah tishme'u be'koli—are you prepared to hear My voice?

Yes, those were the words at Sinai—even before the ketubah (wedding agreement) of ten words, also known as the Ten Commandments. The words before words: are you prepared just to hear My voice? Because if you are, we can rectify the whole disaster that happened when you left Eden. You will understand with that voice who I am: I am your Creator. You will understand who you are: you are the creature in the presence of the Creator.

Will that be uncomfortable? Will you have butterflies in your stomach when you encounter Me? Well, of course you will—it is okay to have butterflies in your stomach. This is the good kind of fear, the fear that redeems the corrupted fear you experienced in Eden when you were hiding.

This is awe, the true product of an encounter between creature and Creator. It is not the shameful kind of fear of hiding for yourself, of being unable to confront your own nakedness.

So at Sinai there was the sound of the shofar—the voice of God without words—and then just after that, God gave us His ketubah. It is really just a formality at that point. First we heard His voice; we understood who He was; we understood who we were. He is the Creator, we are the creature.

In recognizing that, we understood that by rights He should be the ultimate lawgiver, and we accepted that. Now we are just accepting the Torah/instructions themselves. We accept that You can make the rules, that You decide right and wrong—and now tell us what right and wrong is. Here it is.

All told, if our experience at Eden was a failure to recognize God's leadership, Sinai was a second chance. When Israel said, "Everything that the Almighty says we will do," they replayed the events of Eden and redeemed them. So do we every year when we remember that day, when we remember that voice. On Rosh Hashanah we crown God anew.

Zichron Teruah is the day when we remember His voice. Let us highlight some thoughts on remembering (zichronot) and the shofar blast (shofrot).

Sinai is an amazing time of crowning the King, but it brings consequences. It changes who you are. It changes our view of ourselves. We become small in our estimations, and He becomes huge. Malchiyot (Kingship) produces challenges, but Zichronot (memory) gives us answers. Memory helps you remember, right? If you want to just remember things. But memory does far more than that—it is actually the way we understand ourselves. We understand who we are; identity itself is wrapped up in the idea of memory. And the reason is that memory is really about storytelling.

When you remember things, you are actually connecting the dots between your various experiences, weaving them together to form a story. That is actually the only way you remember anything. When we remember our lives, we are not remembering a thousand disconnected things we did—we are remembering a story, a story that we tell ourselves. And our identity emerges from that story.

You know, we speak about Rosh Hashanah/Yom Teruah/Day of Judgment/Day of Trumpets as the beginning of the Yomim Noraim—the Days of Awe. What is awe? We feel awe sometimes when we are in the presence of something like the Grand Canyon, or when you sit on a grassy knoll looking up at the stars at night. But ask yourself: why do you feel awe? The reason you feel awe in those experiences is that you begin to get a sense that there might just be a larger story here. And if there is, I have to figure out how I fit. I want to be a part of that larger story. Sure, if you want, you do not have to—you can continue telling your own story, be my guest—but at what price?

So yes, on the one hand, the Sinai moment, the encounter with Kingship, implies Din—it implies judgment. You are going to look at my life; You are going to see who I am; You are going to see my track record, what I have done. How can I contribute? But that is a glorious thing, that judgment. It is not the black robes at the birthday party; it is not judgment in order to be punitive and see what terrible things you deserve to be subjected to, to be paid back for all your sins. No—this judgment is a marvelous opportunity. It is my opportunity to be a part of the grand unfolding story. Take me in.

Shalom!
Alan 

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