Madua? Why and how we will not be consumed by this

The following was my invocation at the Opening Session of the Yom Chadash Gathering of the Association of Reform Jewish Educators and the Early Childhood Educators of Reform Judaism; January 22, 2025, in Evanston, IL.. The theme of the gathering is “Imagine the Possibilities.”

[Welcome, or welcome back, to the land of name tags. Don’t worry about tracking the different Stacies, the Rachels, the Davids…]

Today, we are all Moses.

We are shepherds in the desert, doing our best to steer our flock.

Like Moses, we have each in our own way been blindsided by a מַּרְאֶ֥ה הַגָּדֹ֖ל  mar’eh gadol – a great spectacle – a burning bush that is aflame, but mysteriously, not being consumed. 

Moses stops in his tracks, riveted by the sight so beyond comprehension. He asks,

מַדּ֖וּעַ לֹא־יִבְעַ֥ר הַסְּנֶֽה׃

Why is this bush not being consumed? Madua, why, – from the root mada – knowing – the same root as the modern word for science – A “Why?” that really asks how? How is it possible? How can it be? Not, let me put it out, or let me run away; let me understand what is in front of me.

It feels like there are burning bushes everywhere we turn, calling out for our attention.

Be it nature’s own fiery beast unleashed; or the fire of terror, rockets and war; or the smoldering plumes set by politicians; or the vitriolic speech and viral images that singe our souls; what will come of us, as these literal and metaphorical “fires” burn?

Madua? How is it possible that we will we not be consumed by all of this?

Madua? Why? Is it possible these sparks of crisis will strengthen our resilience and renewal?

We may not have easy answers to the question; but the Jewish people have wisdom to guide us in times like these.

Like Moses, our teacher, we must remember to pause, to notice, to marvel, to wonder;

        to feel awe, and yet, to not be overwhelmed or paralyzed by what we can’t control or explain.

And like Moses, it’s not just us alone out there with the flock and the fire.

Recall even Moses did not step up alone. His mother Yocheved risked her life to hide him. The midwives, Shifra and Puah, defied Pharoah’s decree and saved him. Miriam strategically watched over him. Bat Paroah adopted him. Aaron spoke beside him. Jethro advised him. Tzippora sacrificed for him. God was by his side. An invisible, outstretched, mighty arm. Our tradition likes to rally around mythical heroes; but every hero is lifted by people equally heroic, and less heralded.

Like Moses, we know it is a holy moment; our moment; and yet our instinct may be to say, “I can’t.” Am I really the one to lead now? Am I talented enough? Wise enough? Creative enough? Courageous enough? Powerful enough?

Before you say, “Nah, I can’t,” take a moment to think about your passion, purpose, and power:

Maybe you’re the kind of creative person who organizes the chaos – the practical creative who can take the tohu va’vohu – that which is messy and unformed – and makes it neat, recognizable, usable.

Maybe you’re the kind of creative person who invents, makes, bakes – the creative who recognizes what’s missing or what’s needed and brings it into the world, declaring “Vayehi,” insisting “it shall be.”

Maybe you’re the kind of creative person who explains and translates – the creative who brings clarity to the cloudiness of the unknown, offering new chidushim - interpretations and ways of seeing – bringing “Or/light” to the darkness.

Throughout Jewish history, the Jewish people have had to adapt. Survive. Migrate. Reinvent ourselves. Learn and relearn. Advocate. Create. We have been the stranger and we have found acceptance. And we have found ourselves strangers again, with new kings who cared not to know us for who we really are.

We have traversed the flames of history before. We carry that trauma. Madua? Why does the burning keep coming back? The flames of human fallibility are never fully extinguished. But neither are we to be consumed by those flames.

With every new encounter with chaos, we have the power to come together and create, in the image of the Divine.

With every new encounter with the unknown, we have the power to demand, why? To say “how can it be?” To rely on our human powers of curiosity, creative thinking and community to come together and figure. It. Out. 

Madua? The burning bush is a reminder that when we see something that just doesn’t make sense, our unique power as humans is that we can investigate, we can learn, can we teach others to see something new. We can manage the awe, the heat, the fear, the confusion and the mesmerizing holiness of life all at once. That is the essence of Jewish education. Jewish educators – we keep the ner tamid lit in the Jewish soul.

The Hebrew name of the book of the Torah we now find ourselves reading, “Shmot” does not translate into the familiar English term “Exodus.” It translates into the word “names.” Because every one of us matters. Every one of us is an author and an actor in human history. Every one of us has the power to craft the story that future generations will tell.

These burning bushes catch each of us off guard, in a different way and at a different time; let us be gentle with one another. Let us help one another block out the noise and the dust and the intense heat of human failure and look around and be strengthened by the best of humanity that is present here, in this room. Go ahead – look around, meet eyes; look for your midwives – your Shifra and Puah; your siblings – your Miriam, and your Aaron; be somebody’s Jethro and Tzippora.

Let us summon our divinely given talents, wisdom and courage; the bushes are burning, and we have the collective strength to heed the call. I am here. Hineni.