God is the Land

Last week we began the book of Bamidbar, we are in the wilderness, a vast land which we have to cross so that we arrive in our Promised Land. In order to begin this journey, the first step, as we did last week is to count the people and assign their tasks.

This week we read Parashat Naso — a text that begins as a continuation of the counting that began last week. Then come the laws of the Sotah — the wife accused by her husband of infidelity. Where the jealous husband brings her to the priest who mixes sacred water with dust from the Tabernacle floor and written curses and dissolves them in the water, making the woman drink it. Sagging and distension would prove her guilt, while remaining unharmed would prove her innocence.  

Right after that, we read about the rules for the Nazirite vows. A voluntary separation from community and dedication to God, requiring the individual to abstain from wine, grape products, and contact with dead bodies, and to allow their hair to grow long.

Then, in the midst of meaninglessness, from the juxtaposition of the bureaucratic task of counting with the violence of Sota and the ambiguity of the Nazirite vows comes an eternal link, sustained by our communities to this day - the famous threefold priestly blessing:

"Speak to Aaron and his sons: Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them:

GOD bless you and protect you!

GOD make Her face to shine upon and be gracious to you!

GOD lift up Her face upon you and grant you peace!"

A blessing that survived across time because it doesn’t belong to the priests anymore. It belongs to the Jewish people.

Reading this week’s parashah and trying to find a message to share with you tonight, I caught myself analysing the whole text and its sequence rather than one specific part, as we traditionally do. Maybe because we are in what feels the eye of a storm. War in Israel, antisemitic attacks around the world, a Jewish crisis of identity. It feels difficult to be a Jew nowadays, and it is painful for all of us.

Recently, I have found theology whilst watching Netflix with my family. A series called "1883", a spin off from the acclaimed Yellowstone, has one of the most beautiful texts that I've recently encountered. It tells the story of settlers trying to get to Oregon in a caravan of wagons. A journey that resembles in so many ways the one our ancestors made crossing the desert: the unknown, though conditions, new rules to live by, fragility, fight, death.

In their wilderness, the reflections in the voices of the women bring theology in the form of poetry. A theology that resonates with me, not only because it comes through the voices of women, but also because it is connected to the land and to nature. Two recent reflections stayed engraved in my mind:

The first says: "I think heaven's right here. So's hell. One person can be walking the clouds right next to someone enduring eternal damnation. And God is the land."

The second: "I didn't have the heart to tell her there's no heaven to go to. Because we're in it already. We're in hell, too. They coexist right beside each other. And God is the land."

The concept of hell and heaven as described in the series is very Christian. However, during these dark days that we are living — when fear is beginning to grow as part of our Jewish identity in the world, when we see hatred and violence spreading around us — we can easily understand and relate to these concepts as the extremes we find in life: the good and the bad.

Heaven lies in the beauty of the small moments: being with our loved ones, soulful music, prayer in community. We are in heaven when we get to be thankful for health, love, and caring. We are in heaven every time we get to smile.

However, we are in hell when we understand that, as Jews, we are back in times of fear. We are in hell when we understand the injustice and the pain that surrounds us, and we feel powerless. Hell is where blood cries from a land where there should be milk and honey.

We are living in times when we understand that it is true: hell and heaven coexist with each other, and God is the land, spitting fire instead of blessings.

A few weeks ago, in Leviticus chapter twenty-five, verse twenty-three, we read God saying "the land is mine" — meaning that we come and go, but the land was here before us and will be after we are gone. In 1883 we hear that God is the land, because the land causes good and bad, pleasure and suffering, sustenance and death — all at the same time. God is the land because it is impossible to grasp its magnitude, it is under our feet no matter where we are. It is part of who we are, and we are part of what it is. Everywhere, always.

We learn in the reading of Naso that duty, injustice, affliction, and blessing can be found in the very same place. Or, as expressed in 1883, good and bad walk hand in hand around us and God is the Land.

When times like the ones we are living come, we need the courage to be counted; to understand and fight injustice wherever we see it; to understand that affliction is not divine — rather, it is a sin. For that, we need a growing blessing, a blessing that begins with three words, grows into five, and then into seven. A blessing that makes shines grace into our faces, that grants us protection, and ends with perfection, wholeness, peace.

During these times when hell and heaven coexist in our lands, wherever they are, may we find holy blessings .

Shabbat Shalom.