Our tradition explores this feeling in a powerful way, connecting it to the very land we inhabit. Let's look into it.
The text we're diving into comes from Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, a fascinating work of Jewish tradition that weaves together biblical narrative with imaginative expansions and moral teachings. In Chapter 17, we find ourselves facing a drought in the land of Israel, a crisis that sends King David on a quest to uncover its cause.
Picture this: year after year, the people of Israel make their pilgrimage, going up to Jerusalem for the festivals. But something is amiss. The skies remain stubbornly dry. In the second year of this drought, David addresses the people. He urges them: "Go forth and see if there be among you people who lead immoral lives." Why? Because, as David reminds them, immorality pollutes the land, closing the heavens and withholding the rain. He cites the prophet Jeremiah (3:2-3): "And thou hast polluted the land with thy whoredoms… Therefore the showers have been withholden, and there hath been no latter rain."
They search, they investigate, but they find no open sin, no scandalous immorality. What then?
The drought persists. The following year, the people once again ascend to Jerusalem. Again, David probes. This time, he suspects bloodshed. "Go forth," he commands, "and see if there be among you people who shed blood, because on account of the sin of those who murder the rain is withheld." He quotes Numbers 35:33: "So ye shall not pollute the land wherein ye are; for blood, it polluteth the land." The connection is clear: sin stains the land, preventing the blessings of rain from flowing. Again, the people search diligently. But once more, they find no murderers among them.
So, what’s going on? Why is the rain still withheld? David, perplexed, declares, "Henceforth the matter only depends upon me." He understands that the fault must lie somewhere else, perhaps with the leadership, perhaps with something less obvious than blatant sin. David turns to prayer, beseeching the Holy One, blessed be He, for guidance.
And the answer he receives is both surprising and profound. The answer is that the problem rests with Saul. King Saul, the first king of Israel! "Was not Saul one who was anointed with the oil of consecration?" God asks David. "And was it not Saul in whose days there was no idolatry in Israel? And was it not Saul who secured his portion with Samuel the prophet?" All true. Yet, the divine accusation continues, "Ye are in the land (of Israel) and he is (buried) outside the land (of Israel)."
Wow. Even though Saul was a righteous king in many ways, the fact that his body remained unburied within the land of Israel was enough to withhold the rain. It suggests a deep connection between the physical integrity of the land and its spiritual well-being. The land itself is almost a character in this story, sensitive to the presence of even the remains of someone significant.
What can we learn from this ancient story? Perhaps it's a reminder that our actions, both individually and collectively, have consequences that extend beyond the immediate. Perhaps it's a call to consider the unseen, the unresolved issues that might be blocking our own blessings. And perhaps, most profoundly, it's a testament to the sacredness of the land itself, and the importance of treating it with reverence and respect. What unresolved issues might we need to address to open the heavens once more?