Living Poetry: Revaluing Religion (Rosh Hashanah Day 5782)

In high school, my friends and I memorized T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” finding in it language for our teenage angst:

And indeed there will be time / For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, / Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; / There will be time, there will be time / To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet…

When I’m feeling unmoored, scared, alone, I feel comforted by poetry’s vivid metaphors. These images act like little mirrors, helping me see myself more clearly. I invite you to take a moment now to reflect on whether there is a poem that’s been particularly meaningful to you in this way, as an understanding companion through a perhaps difficult time.

Since those angst-filled teenage days, I’ve come to realize religion is itself a kind of poetry – not as much a guide to what to do or not to do, also that - but more a treasure trove of rich imagery that evokes something in us, acknowledges our yearning for order, gives us a balm for our loneliness. Like religion, the writer Audre Lorde once wrote, “Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought.” Religion has the power to make the invisible visible. Its metaphors - animated by ritual and prayer - can open doorways of connection to Something deep within, and far beyond us. 

Today, we return to a collection of powerful metaphors: a Book of Life we yearn to be written in for a year of health and happiness; the shofar (the ram’s horn), which evokes the wails of our foremothers as they confronted unspeakable loss and sought consolation; the gates of prayer that stand open before us, assuring us our heart’s longings might be received at this special time of year. These images point toward truths about life we sense but cannot name.

Our ancestors attempted to find language for their encounters - in moments of great joy or deep sorrow - with Something greater than them, what some call God. They were smart enough to know that there is no perfect word for it, so constructed a name for God - spelled in Hebrew, yud hey vav hey, that reflected this truth. Traditionally not said aloud and likely impossible to pronounce, this word conveys the limits of language to express what is most important. Only through multiple metaphors can we begin to describe the breadth and depth of our experience - likely the reason our liturgy gives us so many options: God is a place, a shepherd, a rock; a fountain, a tree, a light; a shelter, an artist, a parent, to provide a few examples.

But during the High Holidays, my friend and teacher, Rabbi Toba Spitzer points out,

Many of the dominant images of divinity that we encounter [are] - God as King, as the Power over “who will live and who will die,” as Heavenly Father - [all images that] fail to resonate with (or actively repel) many contemporary Jews.

If we look at these images as metaphors - though we do not read them literally, we can still take them seriously. Spitzer continues:

Metaphors like “King” and “Creator of the Universe” are intended to help us feel our own relative smallness in relation to the cosmos, to invoke a sense of humility and service, while at the same time suggesting that there is Something in the vastness that both cares about us and holds us accountable. The metaphor of “Parent” speaks to an experience of returning home, of coming back to That which loves and accepts us. As with any metaphors, we need to remember that these are not definitions of God; they are poetic entryways into an experience of Something both within and around us.

As we encounter these images of God as King and Father, today and on Yom Kippur, let’s remember, as Spitzer suggests to us, the words in our prayer book were written as poetry, these images as evocative metaphors. Rather than ask, “Do I believe this?” what might happen if instead we asked, “Where are these words trying to take me?” - and as all these prayers wash over us, asked, “What image is touching my heart today? What might it be reflecting back to me, helping me to see about my life?”

Metaphor has the power to shape our lives. It helps us find language for what we deeply sense but struggle to name. This year, let’s open to seeing the language in our liturgy as a record of our ancestors’ bold experiments in naming moments of encounter with what is beyond speech. As we do, may we feel encouraged to find metaphors that give us language for our moments of sacred connection - helping us to name them so we can return to them, not just on holy days, but every day. 

As we do, may our lives be like a poem - inviting our imaginations to open to what is possible, helping us discover the sacred in ordinary moments, and allowing us to stay connected to what is most important.

Ken yehi ratzon. May it be so.