The ancient rabbis grappled with this too. They looked at Psalm 61, and from it, they wove a powerful message about suffering, redemption, and the ever-present possibility of connection with the Divine. This exploration is found in Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Psalms.

"You have shown your people a hard time," the Midrash begins. It then asks, "What is the wine that trembles?" The answer isn't about intoxication, but about the overwhelming burden of the Torah, the weight of responsibility, the sheer difficulty of living a righteous life. It's the kind of burden that can make you feel unsteady, like you might spill the wine at any moment. But here's the twist: this very wine, this very struggle, can also be what ultimately removes the yoke. It’s through facing these challenges that we grow closer to God.

The Midrash continues, "Save me with your right hand and answer me, the same right hand that went after you." This is a plea for help, but it's also a reminder. Even when we feel abandoned, God's "right hand" – a symbol of strength and protection – is still reaching out. The book of Lamentations (2:3) poignantly describes a moment where it seems like God has withdrawn that hand: "He has withdrawn his right hand." But the Midrash offers hope. God says, "You ask for one thing, and I will add another." As Isaiah (11:11) proclaims, "On that day the Lord will extend his hand a second time to reclaim the surviving remnant of his people." There’s always a chance for renewal, for reconnection.

The Midrash then shifts to the idea of prayer. "To the conductor, on the melody of David. I will listen to my prayer." This isn’t just about uttering words; it's about truly listening to the prayers that rise from within. Proverbs (15:29) tells us, "The Lord is far from the wicked, but he hears the prayer of the righteous." But what about when we don’t feel righteous? What about when we feel lost and distant?

The Midrash reminds us that throughout history, whenever Israel cried out, God answered. In Egypt, as we read in Exodus (3:7), God heard their cries: "I have surely seen the affliction of my people who are in Egypt and have heard their cry because of their taskmasters. I know their sufferings." At the Red Sea (Exodus 14:15), in the wilderness (Numbers 21:3), during the time of Samuel (1 Samuel 7:9), even in Solomon's time when fire descended upon the Temple (1 Kings 8:54) – God was there, listening, responding.

And what about now, in exile? Even now, in our own moments of feeling exiled from ourselves, from our communities, from God, the Midrash offers comfort. Lamentations (3:55-56) echoes, "I called on your name, O Lord, from the depths of the pit; you heard my plea, ‘Do not close your ear to my cry for help!’"

But there's a challenge here, too. The Midrash acknowledges that we might only call out to God from "the edge of the earth" – when we're desperate, when we're far from home, when we're at our wit's end. God responds, "From the edge of the earth you have called me, but when you were in the land, you did not call on me." Ouch. It's a reminder to cultivate a constant connection, not just a crisis connection.

Jeremiah (29:12-13) encourages us: "Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you. You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart." And Moses, in Deuteronomy (4:30), offers a path: "When you are in tribulation, and all these things come upon you in the latter days, you will return to the Lord your God and obey his voice."

So, what does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it's this: even in the midst of hardship, even when we feel distant, the possibility of connection remains. It requires us to turn, to call out, to seek with all our hearts. And maybe, just maybe, the "wine that trembles" is actually a reminder of our own resilience, our own capacity for faith, and the enduring presence of a God who hears us, even from the edge of the earth.