In last week’s parsha we found the verses we now recite as the Sh’ma and V’ahavta. In this week’s parsha, Ekev, we read the verses that make up the next paragraph of the Sh’ma, the one that begins v’haya im shamoa, “If you listen, really listen–”  (Deut. 11:13-21) Torah says: if we really listen and do these mitzvot, God will grant us rain in its season, and good harvests.

And if we don’t, then God will close up the heavens to us and the earth will not yield what we need to survive. The rabbis of the early Reform and Reconstructionist movements removed this paragraph from the prayerbook because it felt either too supernatural or too transactional. We all know that sometimes bad things happen to good people. A life of mitzvot is no guarantee. 

Today many of us have returned this paragraph to our prayers. This evening we encountered one creative translation, from R. Zalman Schachter-Shalomi z”l. There are others, like my poem “Listen Up, Y’all.” For me, the message of this passage is deeply apt in this era of climate crisis. It may evoke different things for us at different times; that’s part of what Torah and prayer do.

Much of Torah’s richness lies in her capacity to speak to us in ways beyond the literal. Torah often functions like poetry: it has things to teach us on levels that have nothing to do with argument. Of course, as a poet, I would say that! But our whole interpretive tradition is based on the understanding that Torah speaks on multiple levels. We take Torah seriously, not literally. 

Torah calls us to teach the mitzvot to our children, inscribe them in our mezuzot, and live by them so that our generations will “endure in the land that God swore to our ancestors to assign to them, as long as there is a heaven over the earth.” (Deut. 11:21) A few verses later Torah says our inheritance will stretch from the Euphrates to the sea – a truly enormous piece of land. 

Some Jews do take passages like this as evidence for who should hold the keys to which real estate. West Bank settlers, and the government officials who support them, may read Torah as an eternal land grant. But that’s not how I read it, any more than I read the verses about scarcity and harvest as a literal prediction of what happens if we do or don’t observe mitzvot. 

Deuteronomy is the newest part of Torah, written down around 700 BCE. We’ve had a spiritual connection with that beloved land for a really long time, and that moves me deeply. But that doesn’t mean we’re the only people who do! Clearly the Palestinian people do too. And whatever the future of that land looks like, it has to include both of the peoples who call it home. 

I pray for a ceasefire in Gaza. I pray for the hostages to be returned safely, speedily and soon. I pray for an end to this terrible, tragic chapter that has shattered all of our hearts. I pray for Israelis and Palestinians both to receive the gifts that Torah this week promises: good rains in their season; new grain and wine and oil; everything human beings need in order to thrive.

Torah tells us this week to “walk in God’s ways.” (Deut. 11:22) Rashi says this means: God acts with loving-kindness, and so should we. Torah also tells us to “cut away the covering over our hearts.” (Deut. 10:16) Torah urges us to remove our protective calluses, a scant six weeks before the new year – all the better to do the work of teshuvah to which this season calls us. 

I mentioned earlier that in the 20th century this second paragraph of the Sh’ma was cut from our liturgy in two branches of Judaism because it seemed to offer an if/then promise that wasn’t borne out by the world as we know it. This isn’t the first time “The Rabbis” have made this kind of call. In Jewish tradition we don’t pray for rain during Israel’s dry season. 

At Pesach we stop asking for rain and start asking for dew. On the fall festival of Shemini Atzeret / Simchat Torah we begin asking for rain… and that’s a festival and a transition that is going to be tough this year, because last fall that was Oct. 7. I suspect we will be calling forth rain with our tears this year, and probably for many years to come.

Why don’t we pray for rain during Israel’s summer? Because our tradition teaches us not to pray for the impossible. Our sages long ago posited that to pray for an impossibility, like rain in the dry season of a desert climate, would shatter our faith. If we ask for something impossible, and it doesn’t come (because it’s impossible), we might conclude that prayer is worthless. 

I’m reminded of one of my favorite quotes from Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel: “Prayer cannot bring water to parched fields, or mend a broken bridge, or rebuild a ruined city; but prayer can water an arid soul, mend a broken heart, and rebuild a weakened will.” Prayer isn’t a vending machine, where we put in a dollar and God gives us a treat. Prayer works on / in us.

And you know what we do pray for every day, in the rainy and the dry season alike? Peace. Our sages ensconced that prayer in our daily liturgy all year long, which means it must be possible. Maybe God can’t make rain out of dry skies, but with God’s help we can always seek peace. May our prayers together tonight balm our broken places and strengthen us in seeking peace. 

This is the d’varling that Rabbi Rachel offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services (cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.)