Like many of you, I got a call on Thursday from Baltimore City, begging me to stay indoors due to Tropical Storm Debby. My children’s outdoor camp activities were cancelled due to the possibility of dangerous winds and fallen trees. There was a run on toilet paper at the local supermarket. And a whole bunch of you forgot to turn your notifications off, so we would all get to hear that high-pitched screeching sound letting us know that there was a Tornado watch.
I’m actually kind of happy we had this experience. It gave us a tiny, microscopic, window into what our brothers and sisters in Israel have experienced this past week as they wait to see how Iran and their proxies will act.
But ‘tiny’ and ‘microscopic’ does not do justice to the shared experience. In Israel, they are not worried about a tree falling and taking out the power; they are worried about hundreds of missiles falling from the sky causing devastation.
They are not worried about the thunder that might wake the children who will then come and snuggle in their parents’ warm bed; they are worried about the air raid sirens and how quickly they can get their children to the safe room.
They are not worried about winds; they are worried about all-out war.
And whereas you and I could track Debby as she makes her way up the coast, all of Israel is waiting with bated breath for what Hezbollah and Iran will do without any warning at all.
That was uncomfortable, wasn’t it? That was only five seconds.
There is nothing more unsettling than waiting for the unknown.
To me, one of the most disturbing elements of the past ten months has been the disconnect between us in America and our brothers and sisters in Israel. They are sending their boys off to the front line and we’re sending our boys off to sleepaway camp. They are reliving the destruction of the Temple and the fall of Jerusalem, and we’re watching cute and inspiring videos about their heroes while we go about our day. They are counting bodies, and we’re counting homeruns.
And yes, I know we care, but the gap – the gap between us and them is vast. It’s like we’re two nations, with two entirely different realities.
I’d like to share with you a biographical sketch of a man who lived during a time when we were also two nations experiencing radically different realities; as always, we have a lot to learn from our past.
About 2500 years ago, there lived a man by the name Yeshaya, Isaiah. Yeshaya was born to the aristocracy, a close relative of the king. He was powerful, intelligent, and a brilliant orator – and he was a prophet. He began his prophetic career during one of the high points of the Judean monarchy. At that time, the Jewish People were split into two kingdoms, North and South, Israel and Judah. King Achaz, the Judean King had a mighty army, they had expanded their border all the way down to Eilat. The Temple was flourishing, people were knowledgeable in Torah, all seemed good.
But Yeshaya was a prophet. A prophet’s greatest skillset is to see what no one else sees. Or perhaps more accurately, to see what everyone else is ignoring and to say what no one wants to hear. At this particular time, he did not even need a prophetic vision, he turned to his fellow Jews of the Southern Kingdom and asked them to just look over the border. “Do you not see how the Northern kingdom is falling apart? Do you not see how Assyria is getting stronger each day, and will someday very soon wipe out your brothers and sisters on the other side of the border?”
“Fine,” they said, “we’ll say some Tehillim.”
“And look, Yeshaya, we get it. Bad things may happen, but they’ll survive. We’ll survive. Hakol yihyeh b’seder. Ten chiyuch, hakol l’tovah.” “You think Israel is going to collapse? We’ve never been so powerful! Look at our army! Look at our intelligence!” and the people went on with their lives. Little did they know that there is no guarantee that Israel will not be overtaken by foreign entities. There was no guarantee then, nor is there a guarantee now. They would find out the hard way.
In the meantime, Yeshaya tried again. He pointed to the disparities in society between the haves and the have-nots. He reminded them of the many members of society who are being ignored and not taken care of. And I could just hear the people of Juda responding to him, “Yeshaya, Yeshaya, you’re getting political. You’re a prophet. Stay in your lane.”
He tried one more time – “You guys are doing so many Mitzvos, you’re learning so much Torah. It’s beautiful. But do you ever think about G-d? Do you think He just wants your mechanical actions?! He wants your heart! Do you think He wants offerings? Do you think He wants you to just mumble the words of your prayers?! He wants your emotions! He wants a genuine relationship with you!” But this too fell on deaf ears.
The Book of Isaiah is one of the most popular books in the Jewish canon. But at the time, Isaiah was one of the least popular people in Israel. No one likes to be made uncomfortable. He was blocked by some. Reported on by others. His posts got one or two likes, usually it was that angry face emoji. There was no shortage of eloquent people who were reassuring the Jews of Judea that all would be well. Who would you listen to? Mr. Doomsday or Mr. Inspiration?
Yehsaya did have a short stint of popularity. During one of the darkest times, after the Ten Tribes had been taken away, after Sancheriv the Assyrian general had besieged Jerusalem, Yeshaya returns to the scene. This time he shares a message of hope, reassuring them, letting them know that it may look bleak, but it will all be good. And he was right; Sancheriv ran off and Jerusalem was saved. He shared during those dark days famous visions of lions and lambs, and broken swords.
You see, prophets were contrarians. Their job was to remind us to always feel a little bit uncomfortable. To never feel like we’ve made to the top of the mountain of success. To second-guess our most precious and dear beliefs. When they were too comfortable, he made them uncomfortable, and when they were scared, he reassured them.
I wonder what Yeshaya would tell us today.
I imagine he would turn to the mothers in Israel, preparing their “go-bags” and training their children to run to the maamad, and he would tell them “Don’t worry. V’ashiva shoftayich k’varishona, I will bring justice back to this holy city.” He would tell the sleepless spouses that their husbands will come home; that war will one day be a thing of the past. He would walk through the army barracks giving hugs to the teenagers who are trying to hold it together and remind them how beloved they are to Hashem. The people of Israel need chizuk, they need strength, and that’s what the prophet would give them.
But then he would turn to us, as we plan our summers ahead, as we flip through inspirational video after inspirational video, and he would thunder: “Do you really think you’re doing enough?! How can you sleep when your cousins are in Gaza? How can you eat comfortably when their mothers and fathers haven’t eaten in ten months?”
“I hear you talking about how scared you are in this country, but then you treat American politicians like heroes, and then you go and build houses that scream ‘I am not going anywhere’? Are you really in exile or is this your home?!”
“And yes, your mitzvah observance and Torah learning has never been greater. But G-d does not want actions. Rachman liba ba’i. Hashem wants you. To show up honestly, authentically. No games. No gimmicks. An open and honest and growth-filled relationship.”
“You may not be able to help the fallen and broken in Israel, but is there a shortage of fallen and broken around you? Open your eyes!”
We don’t have prophets nowadays. But we do. Not only because the words we read this morning from Yeshaya so clearly reverberate in our times. But even more deeply, the Talmud says that prophecy lives on through children. Inside each and every one of us there is a child, a voice of idealism, of unbridled self-criticism, and of unself-conscious yearnings. We’ve all heard that voice before. Sometimes we listen to it. More often, like they did to the prophets of old, we ignore it.
This Shabbos is the only Shabbos dedicated to words of prophecy – Shabbos Chazon, the week we listen to Yeshaya of old, but also to the internal Yeshaya, the child inside. After three weeks of mourning, after three weeks of reminding ourselves that things are not where they need to be, the hope is that we are little less guarded, a little more vulnerable, a little more open to hear that inner prophetic voice. And for each us, that voice is saying something else. Each of us are comfortable in our own way. And each of us need to listen to that voice to figure out what we really need to do. Can you hear it? What’s that voice saying? To you.
***
For a while it seemed like the tide had turned, the people embraced Yeshaya and his messages. His daughter married the king of Israel, Chizkiyahu, and Yeshaya was now an official member of the royal family.
But it could not be maintained. Chizkiyahu died. His son Menashe took over. And Yeshaya’s criticisms started grating on too many people and getting in their way of their lives. Our sages teach us that after attempting to sideline Yeshaya was unsuccessful, he was executed by Menashe, his very own grandson.
As I said, those times are not so different than now. Do we listen to the words of the inner prophet and allow him to guide us to personal and collective redemption, or do we kill him with apathy and comfort?