It’s a feeling that resonates deeply, and it’s something the ancient rabbis grappled with too, especially when contemplating the fate of Israel.
Midrash Tehillim, a fascinating collection of interpretations on the Book of Psalms, dives into this very feeling. It tackles Psalm 90, a poignant reflection on human mortality and divine power. And within this psalm, a particular verse sparks a powerful discussion: “They shall be carried away in a deep sleep… In the morning, it will sprout and pass away.” (Psalm 90:5-6). What does it really mean?
Rabbi Yochanan offers a stark image: "They will wither like a plant after being cut." A brutal, sudden end. Resh Lakish, however, sees a different angle. He suggests, "They withered from your Torah, and a worm touched them." A more nuanced view – perhaps a neglect of spiritual nourishment, leaving them vulnerable to decay. A "worm" of doubt? A "worm" of apathy?
But the Rabbis take it in yet another direction. "You have scattered them for a time." They see a period of dispersal, a temporary scattering, as part of the divine plan. Think of seeds scattered by the wind, waiting for the right moment to take root again.
Then, the verse continues: "In the morning, it will sprout and pass away." This line ignited a powerful discussion between the Rabbis and Rabbi Abba bar Kahana. They ask: Who is this referring to? Their answer: Israel. But why, they wondered, does it wither and dry up in the evening? Their answer: "Because of the nations of the world." It's a raw acknowledgment of external pressures, the weight of history, and the challenges faced by the Jewish people.
Rabbi Abba bar Kahana goes even further. He declares, "The entire destruction belongs to Israel." A heavy statement, indeed. But it is followed by a glimmer of hope. "In the morning, it will sprout and pass away in the world to come." Meaning, even after destruction in this world, there is the promise of renewal in the olam haba (the world to come).
But what about now? Why, Rabbi Abba bar Kahana asks, does Israel wither and dry up in the evening – in this world? His response is a heartbreaking prayer: "Drink our sins before You. At every hour, drink our sins, and if You seek to revive us, we are before You like those who never existed. At that hour, we are going towards Your light."
It's a powerful image: a plea for divine forgiveness, a willingness to start anew, to be reborn from the ashes. Like a blank slate, ready to be filled with divine light. "Drink our sins…" It's a desperate, almost sacrificial offering, acknowledging human fallibility and yearning for redemption.
What strikes me most about this Midrash is its unflinching honesty. It doesn't shy away from the pain, the suffering, the periods of darkness. But it also refuses to surrender to despair. Even in the face of destruction, there's a flicker of hope, a persistent belief in the possibility of renewal, of returning to the light. It's a testament to the enduring spirit of Israel, a story etched in the very fabric of our tradition. And perhaps, a story that resonates with each of us, in our own moments of sprouting and withering. Can we, too, offer up our imperfections and turn towards the light?