It’s been a big week in our country, and as we gather this evening, we do so with a mix of emotions. Some of us are feeling relieved, maybe even jubilant. Others among us are feeling anxious or angry or afraid; disappointed, disoriented, or maybe even despondent. And whatever we’re feeling, I think we can all agree on one thing: we’re tired. Really, deeply tired.
It is precisely in moments like these that I find Shabbat to be such a gift. Shabbat invites us to breathe, to pause, to let go. One of my favorite prayers in the Friday evening service, which Leo will lead us in singing in just a moment, is "Ana B'koach," meaning "Please, with strength." In this hymn, written by an 11th century Spanish mystic named Shlomo ibn Gavirol, we ask of God, "Tatir tzrurah," — “untie the knots.” And don’t we all have knots we’re carrying around inside us, constricting our capacity to breathe, to be, and to become? Shabbat is, at its core, an opportunity to loosen those bonds, to untie those knots. "Shabbat va-yinafash," as the Torah says — through Shabbat, we can reclaim our breath.
But if we’re being honest, that’s easier said than done, isn’t it? When life feels chaotic, our breath gets short.
When Moses told the Israelites that God was ready to free them from bondage, they couldn’t take it in. The Torah says they were so crushed by hard labor that they couldn’t hear him. They were kotzer ruach — literally, “short of breath.” After hundreds of years of slavery, they couldn’t even begin to imagine freedom. They were so burdened by the relentlessness of life that they couldn’t deeply enough to open themselves to the possibility that things could be different.
The other night, my nine-year-old got so upset about something that he couldn't even tell me what was wrong. He was sobbing so uncontrollably that he was almost gasping for air. And I realized as I was sitting with him that until he caught his breath, there was no way he could really talk through what he was feeling, let alone figure out what he needed. First things first, he needed to breathe.
So how do we catch our breath when the world around us feels overwhelming?
Our tradition offers a powerful answer. Our Torah portion this week, Parashat Lekh Lekha, tells us that God calls Abraham to a special, life and world changing, mission. Yet it doesn't answer a fundamental question: why Abraham? A famous midrash attempts to answer the question by means of a parable: once, there was a wayfarer who came across a palace engulfed in flames. When he saw the palace burning he stopped, turned aside, and asked, “Could it be that this place has no caretaker? Who is responsible for this?” The owner of the palace appears and says, “Me -- I am the owner.” Abraham is the wayfarer. Our world is the palace, and the owner, of course, is God.
But the midrash is not just about Abraham’s sudden awareness of God’s presence, even in a world on fire. My teacher, Rabbi Sharon Brous, suggests that God’s answer in the midrash is a challenge. God is saying to Abraham, in effect: “I may be the owner, but you, you who noticed the fire — you are also responsible.”
This is such a powerful way of thinking about our role in the world as descendants of Abraham. Abraham sees a palace on fire, sees a world engulfed in flames, and he doesn’t look away. He sees it and asks who’s going to do something about it. And God’s answer is: You are. The message here is that we have to be awake, to see what’s broken in our world and respond to it. When we notice the flames — when we see the suffering, the injustice, the need — it becomes our calling. We mustn’t just pass by. We must not look away.
But Rabbi Brous also points out that the Hebrew of the midrash is ambiguous. The same word usually translated as blazing fire can also mean radiant light. So which was it? Did Abraham see a palace burning? Or did he see one that was illuminated? Or, perhaps both. Maybe Abraham saw both the flames and the beauty in the palace. Maybe the fire was a call to action, but the beauty was a reminder of what’s worth saving. And that’s the tension we live in—the world is both burning and radiant.
It reminds me of a powerful scene from The Return of the King, the third installment of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy. In a dark and desperate moment, when all hope seems lost, Sam — the faithful friend accompanying the story’s hero on his perilous quest to save the world — looks up at the sky and sees a star shining through the clouds. For just a moment, he’s able to feel the beauty that’s still in a world that had become mired in darkness and shadow. And he says, “There's still some good left in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.” That bit of beauty doesn’t diminish the darkness, but it gives him the strength to keep going.
I think Shabbat invites us into that same kind of seeing. If all we notice are the flames, we’ll get lost in despair. But if we only focus on the palace’s beauty, we risk ignoring what’s broken and needs mending. Shabbat is an opportunity to step back and see the fire and the beauty together. It’s about catching our breath, so we can act from a place of wholeness, grounded in hope and purpose.
As I think back to my son, what helped him finally breathe again was realizing that he was loved; that whatever he was upset about wasn't all-encompassing, that there was still light, even if it was obscured in that moment. Just as he needed that pause to reclaim his breath, Shabbat gives us space to remember that even with all that’s burning and broken and blackened by soot and shadow, there’s still some good left in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.
May we each embrace the opportunity Shabbat affords us to untie our knots, to see the beauty alongside the brokenness, and to reclaim our breath. May we, children of Abraham, have the courage to keep fighting the fires and redeeming the radiance. And may we go forth tonight, and tomorrow, and in the months and years ahead, with renewed capacity to breathe, even in this breathless time – with spirits revived, with resolve strengthened, emboldened to embrace our responsibility to care for one another in this broken, and beautiful, palace.
So may it be God’s will. Amen.
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