What's your metaphor?

Hey there, everyone. My name is Rabbi Jen Gubitz, and I'm pumped to be joined by Rabbi Jodi Gordon as we welcome you to the OMFG podcast, Jewish wisdom for unprecedented times. Hey, Jodi.

Hey, Gubitz. OMFG, what a wonderful 4-letter word. I mean, those 4 letters can say so much and so little. Time, whether they are expressing joy or grief, excitement or disappointment, delight and sorrow, impatience or urgency— truly the full breadth of human experience. And as rabbis, we know that when the stories of our lives meet the stories of Jewish tradition, there's so much potential there, right, for transformation or growth or just something awesome to happen.

It's true. As rabbinical students at Hebrew Union College, we studied together on the New York campus, where we really got to know each other through the Tisch Rabbinical Fellowship. It was run by someone we'll probably mention a lot, our teacher Rabbi Larry Hoffman, who compelled us to ask big questions, to form new sentences, and think big ideas. Jodi and I are experts in the initials J and G, puns and group texting, as well as Torah and pastoral care. And we want to bring to you our conversations that usually occur over text message or Gchat. And in time, we want to share with you the voices and wisdom of our colleagues, our friends, and thinkers who are all mining Jewish wisdom for strength and resilience in these unprecedented times.

So, Jodi, you said to me the other day that metaphors are totally my love language.

I responded, "OMFG, me too!" I'm obviously curious. These are tough times as we move into winter. So what is the metaphor that is getting you through this particular moment?

When we decided that this question of, you know, what's your metaphor for this moment was going to be what we talked about today, I immediately thought of the thing that Jake Tapper said after that first presidential debate. I believe he called it a hot mess inside a dumpster fire, inside a train wreck. And, you know, that feels real. And a dumpster fire feels like a compelling metaphor, I think, for a lot of people right now because it's a lighthearted way of saying what feels true. But there is also that piece of me that feels like, as a rabbi, that can't be my only offering for for this moment. And, you know, I think about this moment, and I, and I think we are at a— in a, in a waiting place for a turning point. And my other favorite metaphor is starting to feel like it's not really going to serve me as well as we move into the winter. And I usually love the metaphor of the midbar, right, the— that great Hebrew word for the desert or the wilderness, because I think liminal spaces, that place where you're sort of in between, that usually works for me as a metaphor. But You know, we're 8 months in. We're not really in the middle anymore. It's starting to get darker outside. I think for a lot of people, it's starting to get darker inside. And so my metaphor for this moment is something I've been thinking about a lot, and I— and it's about fire. And in general, right, there is like the sort of the larger metaphor of fire. But really specifically, I learned something new this week. I learned a new midrash. And Midrash is that great sort of Jewish rabbinic tradition of explaining things that don't make sense in the Torah. And so it's a Midrash that was written for the purpose of explaining who Abraham in the Torah is, as in like, where does he come from all of a sudden? And so here's this amazing Midrash. And, you know, they use a parable to, to tell the story. So there was once a man on a journey and he is walking along and he comes across a "bira doleket." So "bira" meaning palace and "doleket" meaning on fire. And this man looks around and he's trying to find help to put out the blaze. And basically he calls out, "OMFG, like, whose palace is this? Is there anyone here? Who's responsible? Is anyone in charge here?" And God calls out, you know, in that sort of master of the universe kind of way, you know, "I'm the owner and this is my palace." And this, the rabbis teach in this midrash, that this traveler was our ancestor Abraham, and that by asking the question, Abraham somehow implicates himself and makes himself responsible. I read this and I had this sort of funny reaction of feeling like this is that first divine story of being voluntold, like, you asked and now you have to help. You know, God says, you know, I might be the owner, but now, right, if this palace is on fire, you're gonna have to help me put it out. And at the first, sort of the first pass at this, I love the metaphor of a burning palace because for me, thinking about the world that I lived in and my experience of it between, say, you know, 2008 to 2016, there was a feeling of palatialness, right? Of we had just made so much progress and humanity was progressing along that long arc that bends toward justice. And then in these last few years, and certainly like most acutely in these last 8 months now, like habirah daleket, the palace is on fire. And I know for me and probably many others that I have felt like Abraham looking around and wondering, is anyone in charge here? Can someone be in charge? You know, perhaps there's a more grown-up grown-up who could help us put out the fire. And the thing with this story is that the rabbis were themselves masters of metaphor. And so, of course, the palace wasn't really a palace, but that birad zoleket, that palace on fire, was the world itself. So maybe, you know, maybe one thing we take from this is that, like, the idea that the world could be a dumpster fire maybe is ingrained in our tradition. But, you know, that feels real right now. And then there was this other take on this story that for me made it maybe a little more hopeful or made me feel like there's someplace that this metaphor could take us, right? That we don't just have to sit in the world on fire piece of the experience. And that comes from another famous and wonderful Abraham, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who says, you know, "Doleket" doesn't only have to mean "on fire," it can also mean "illuminated." And so for me, and we're recording this right now just a few days before Election Day, I think that's the understanding of this metaphor that I want to hold on to, that this world on fire can be a moment of illumination. And that doesn't mean that it's not on fire, but that maybe there is some value in that feeling that we're just watching it all burn down right now. Because as we've learned, there's a lot about this palace or the world we were living in that was pretty broken. But if the palace is also illuminated, right, if that fire is actually a source of illumination, then the question we have to ask is, what are we going to learn from this? And the one thing I know about fires is that they do eventually burn out. You know, with the exception of the ner tamid, that eternal flame, no fire is actually meant to last forever because they eventually run out of oxygen. So for me, I think this is, this is my metaphor du jour, right? The birah deleket, the palace on fire, or the palace illuminated.

That really resonates for me right now.

As a metaphor for my world as I'm actually experiencing it, right? That dumpster fire wrapped in a hot mess or whatever Jake Tapper called it. But also that this is a moment of illumination. And so the last thing I'm thinking about is that there's another characteristic of fire, and that is that fire is also purifying, right? That you can use fire to make something clean and new. And that also fires clear the way for new growth. So maybe somehow out of this fire, right, that which actually needed to burn down won't rise again out of the ashes and we'll be able to build a better palace. So that is my metaphor of the moment, this idea of fire as both a source of illumination and also maybe just clearing the way for, for what needs to come. But what about you?

It's funny because, you know, you and I didn't talk about— I said to you, let's make sure we don't have the same metaphor, but we didn't actually say what our metaphor was going to be until just now. And you were like, I'm talking about fire. And I was like, no, I'm talking about fire too.

I mean, maybe that tells us something.

I know, right? We have a lot more in common than just our initials, but also our awareness to this moment in time. One of my favorite midrashim, sort of stories that fill in the missing parts of Torah, is about when Adam and Eve are actually experiencing their first sunset. And they are kicked out of the garden because of the fruit that shows them truth and knowledge. It's blamed on Eve. I think it should be their— both of their faults, of course. And so they're outside of the garden for the first time, and it was always bright, always light in the garden. And they felt safe because someone was in charge, God. And now they're outside of the garden and all they can see as the sun is setting is darkness and they don't know what it is. Where has the sun gone? Will it ever return? And Adam thinks this darkness is going to overcome us. And I imagine them saying, "OMFG, what is happening?" And so the rabbis of the Midrash actually call this time "beyn hash'mashot," which means between two suns, which was a time of transition when we're neither here nor there, no longer but not yet, liminal. I love liminality. It's about the thresholds and the doorways in which we find ourselves between one moment and the next. And it can be disorienting and scary, but also full of opportunity. And so the rabbis of ancient days didn't know what to do with this either. And so they created an answer. And it's something that I come back to all the time when I'm in the in-between moments in my life. So as Adam and Eve are sitting in the darkness crying, the rabbis write a flame, a fire into Adam's hand. And immediately he cries out this blessing, thank you, oh source of light for this sacred light. And then he says, "Bless you, O God, who divides light from darkness." And so I wondered, well, why did the rabbis put fire in his hands? And maybe it's because oftentimes they needed a place to say that Havdalah originated the blessing that ends Shabbat, or the ceremony that ends Shabbat and brings on the rest of the week. They needed a place to put it and they wanted to be like, it's so important, it goes back to the dawn of creation. I also thought, well, maybe they needed him even in these dark moments to find ways to offer gratitude. And to find the words to articulate his experience in his fear, to still find moments to be grateful for. Maybe he actually needed the light to see, like very literal useful light. But I also realized that it was more about his agency. He needed agency in a moment of darkness. And by putting light in his hands, they were saying from their own life experience, and I think relevant to ours, like, We still have agency even when it feels like we're in pits of darkness. What's interesting is that one of the texts actually puts a pillar of fire right into his hand. And then he says the blessing. But another midrash says actually that the rabbis put into Adam's hands two stones. And the translation is actually two flintstones. And I immediately was like, oh my God, that's where the Flintstones come from. Maybe, I don't know. But eventually he has these two stones in his hands. And just like us in our backyard trying to figure out how to make fire, we got a fire starter. He strikes them together, and I believe that he did that with Eve's help. They have to learn to create the fire themselves. And so they have agency and purpose to live in this darkness. But what's interesting is that the rabbis even take it a step further, and they suggest that if you are without a candle, or for our purposes a match, or lacking the right material to spark light, then you can actually just look up at the sky and bless the bright glow of the stars. And if you can't see the stars because you live in a city and you can't see stars because of light pollution, or because you can't metaphorically see the stars because life is dark and you just can't see that far, then you can bless the rocks on the ground. And so rocks on the ground, rocks in your hands, a spark of light in your hands— basically, I think what what they wanted us to know is that even if we don't have everything we want or need right now, we can still bless whatever it is we have and look around ourselves and find a smidge of light of gratitude wherever we are. And so I think the metaphor for ourselves— and it's not that I'm living this so well— but, um, is that in these dark times, and as winter comes, as daylight savings comes, and we just want to curl up inside watching Netflix, which is legit, totally fine. We do have the power to create our own sparks and that even in the darkness, it is possible to find light.

I like that. I mean, the thing about the atom metaphor and the flints and then like the, and even if all you have is two rocks on the ground, right? And like, to me, that sort of says like, you might just not know what to do with like the raw materials you actually have right now, right? It's like those same two rocks that like in a little while you might figure out you can use to create fire. You know, it feels like it's like there's always potential around you. And which I, I feel like I try to hold on to. And I think it's like, you know, we've made our way from the like sourdough starter and whipped coffee phase of the pandemic to the like, it's getting dark in here. And like, uh-oh, like what's really gonna happen here? Like I feel like, I don't know, I'm sure you hear a lot of people saying too, like, if you ask how somebody's doing, right, the answer is like, okay, look, I'm fine. Or like, listen, I'm privileged and I understand, like, I'm really lucky. Like, and also like, you're allowed to sort of curse your own darkness before you figure it out. Like, you're allowed to say like, I can't see the stars.

I can't see the palace, alit.

Right, it's like that story of, you know, like the people all in a boat, You know, like another metaphor, right? Everyone's in a boat together and they're rowing along. And then like Joe Schmo in the back starts like, you know, drilling a hole in the bottom of the boat. And everyone's like, what are you doing? You're going to drown us all. Right. And Joe Schmo's answer is like, what? I'm like only drilling under my seat.

You know?

And like when you're in a boat, like actually drilling under your own seat, like isn't a thing. Like, you know, because the answer, like, right. Like the Talmudic wisdom is like, we're all in the same boat. And then we're living through this experience. And I have not invented this phrase that I'm about to use. I've heard lots of wise people use it. But it's like, we are all actually in the same storm. We're definitely not all in the same boat, right? Like, some of us are in ocean liners and some of us are in dinghies. But that metaphor of like, but no matter sort of like what your vehicle, whether you have like rocks on the ground or like a beautiful fire starter, if you can keep seeing the potential, Right? I'm like, fire helps you see the potential.

Oh, metaphors. Love you, metaphors. Hey, Jodi, why did you think that dumpster fire was not an appropriate metaphor for a rabbi?

I think that there is this truth about the role that we play right now. I mean, like, take a Friday night, which is, which is when I get to see my people. You know, the most. I think I, if I were to take a survey, I could probably get like a clean 50/50 split on people who like in their heart of hearts want me to say that everything's going to be okay and to have some amazing hopeful vision of a future that they're not sure they can see right now and to be the voice of hope and possibility. And that the other side of that 50/50 split would be people who will feel so validated and so seen if their rabbi says like, this is a dumpster fire. And so, you know, our opening gambit, I didn't want to stay only in the land of dumpster fire. But I think there's a reason that it lands for a lot of people. And I think that people often want their rabbis to be able to offer something that they can't get at quite yet.

I opened up Yom Kippur services this year, and I serve young adults primarily. And I said, this year has been a dumpster fire, which doesn't feel like a risk in the setting in which I serve and preach. But a couple of them in a feedback survey said, thank you for calling it a dumpster fire. And I feel like the reason that I, first of all, I can't not speak that truth. Right. But I actually think that that's as much, they need us to be 50% able to see the future and 50% human. And also 100% people who can just say the truth and say that it's okay to speak the truth, even if it's not capital T Torah, it's actually the Torah of our lives.

One of our colleagues, a very smart person, said something to me recently that he thinks that we are living through a second pandemic. And so there's like the pandemic, and that he thinks people in caring professions and teaching professions and clergy roles are living through a second pandemic, and it's a pandemic of precedence. Once we do something, once we say something, that that has to now be true forever going forward. And that, you know, the past 8 months have been an exercise in learning how quickly things have to change and how quickly actually we're usually able to adapt to them. If we do High Holidays not in person this year, does that mean we're never going to be able to go back to the sanctuary again, right? Like, what happens with this pandemic of precedence? And he had this great line he hopes that, that sort of like we as rabbis can actually sort of like breathe into the truth that he thinks is true, which is that any decision we make right now is good until sunset.

Love that.

You know, with each passing day, if we look at the arc of the past 8 months, I think there were times where what my understanding of that would literally have been like tonight, like this sunset, And then the summer offered a period of respite and calm where I might've felt like, okay, maybe like a handful of sunsets or like a week or two of feeling like we've achieved some kind of stasis or even ground. And moving into the winter, right, when we become so aware of how much earlier sunset comes, there is a sort of a sense of anxiety about if I do this now, am I going to be able to do this tomorrow? Can I make a plan for 3 weeks from now or will something have changed dramatically in a way that doesn't allow it. And so can we actually like feel some freedom in the idea that we can make decisions that are good until sunset?

I love that. And then when the darkness comes, we build the fire again. So I feel like everyone should go buy fire starters, rocks. No, don't buy them. Go out and find them. Find, find those dry leaves that were once beautiful and realize that they too can illuminate the darkness. If you just pour lighter fluid on them and burn it all down.

I mean, right, it's the dumpster fire wrapped in a hot mess wrapped in like a disaster, the turducken of fire metaphors.

This episode of the OMFG podcast, Jewish wisdom for unprecedented times, was brought to you by rabbis Jen Gubitz and Jodi Gordon. Audio editing by Leslie Gubitz. Art by Daniel Ben-Yishai. And brought to you by the letter F.

What's your favorite word that starts with an F?

Fun!