Recently I have been thinking about the power of words. I have cursed three times in the past three days - not something I usually do. I grew up surrounded by curses, and weaned myself off of them slowly. Every rare occasion that I do curse, I am reminded why: Cursing is a way of escaping the need to articulate to ourselves and to others.
I can say “F U” instead of “You didn’t value me as a friend, and that hurt me.” That way, I am not articulating my pain, and so I am evading having my pain devalued by you. But then there comes the point where, instead of thinking one thing to myself and saying aloud another, I am unable to articulate to myself what is bothering me, but merely think, “F him” without being conscious of exactly why I am upset or what is upsetting me.
I thought also, of the power of other words: The words of davening, because my admittedly unfocused davening and the hours I spent reading “The Charterhouse of Parma”, by Stendhal, were really the most productive parts of my day. The time I spend poring over my textbook leaves me feeling so unaccomplished, even though technically it is essential to my future career, whatever that may be. Isn’t college supposed to be about education? Shouldn’t I at least feel that I am learning something by studying for finals?
The only answer is the patter of the rain moistening the leaves of trees. There is something comforting about the beauty of rain. Ma rabu maasechah Hashem.* There is something comforting about knowing that God is thinking of this particular spot of the universe, this corner of Baltimore, and showering rain upon it.
Rain is slightly scary in its beauty; it is essential for life, but it also has the power to kill. So inevitably I am reminded that chazal often compared Torah to water. Like water, Torah is essential for life. But like water, Torah has the power to kill. In a literal sense, it perscribes death penalties, but that is not its only danger: The gemarah tells a story of a rabbi whose learning was so fierce that birds above him would spontaneously burst into flame.
How can Torah, something so good, have the potential for destruction? Torah is the most powerfull tool given to human beings to carry out the purpose of creation. When that tool is misused, the havoc it can wreak is inestimable. When we do things in the name of Torah that are antithetical to its values, or use Torah for our own ego instead of lishem shamayim*, the consequences can be catastrophic.
But why give us a tool that can be used both ways? Because God gave us freedom of choice. Each one of us is given a life, and we can use that life to help build the world or destroy it. That is the beauty of the human condition, and that is the beauty of our world: That in every flaw, there is the potential for growth - there is nothing in the world we can’t change. Even physical circumstances can be advance through science, and environmental issues can be fixed if humans so desire.
These changes however, can only be succesful when God wishes to grant them success; the message of bringing bikurim on shavuot is that we can’t say “kochi viotzem yadi", our own strength and mighty hands did this. Rather, we must recognize that our success is like fruit: The work of the farmer is essential, but it is up to God to allow the rains to come in their proper time, and the fruit to blossom.
May the rain of Torah shower upon us, and may we blossom to be fruits of the etz chayim, and be truly semechim beyeshuat Hashem.*
* Ma rabu...How great are your works, Hashem.
* lishem shamayim - for the sake of heaven
*tree of life...truly happy in/with God's redemption
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