The Tree of Life and Hope

By J. D’ror Chankin Gould
Claremont College

"I make this covenant, with its sanctions, not with you alone, but with those who are standing here with us this day, before Adonai, our God, and with those who are not with us here this day." (Deuteronomy 29:13-14).

Shavuot approaches this month and with it comes the story of how the Jewish people received the Torah at Mount Sinai. Our sages have taught us that we should conceptualize this moment as one in which we ourselves participated. Each Jewish soul stood at Sinai. This is not someone else’s Torah, it is my Torah. It is our Torah. Discussing what this, the gift of Torah, might mean for a Jew in the modern day, is no easy task. Some people have said that God no longer speaks to humans, that the modern Jewish struggle is to find strength in an age where God’s voice is accessible only through other’s words. But, to me, it seems that in small ways, without words, God does talk to us and the gift of Torah is an expression of that ever-present comfort and love between God and God’s children.

Some of the greatest wisdom to be found comes from children. That I believe very strongly. Earlier this year, before Simhat Torah, I was teaching my class of five year olds about the Torah. We made our own scroll, complete with a puffy-painted pillowcase-cover set atop wrapping-paper rolls. I asked the children if they would like to give a name to the Torah, to our Torah. After moving past ideas like "Bob" and "Jenny," the children decided on a name that was designed by one of their very own, an incredibly poetic kindergartener named Ruby: "Etz Chayim V’Tikvah"; (The Tree of Life and Hope). I can’t think of a better way to describe what Torah is. It’s a tree: it grows with us, it is sturdy, it has many branches, it is meant to be climbed. It is life: the Torah is what gives the Jewish people their breath, their pulse, their soul. And then, here’s the bit that a little girl added anew: hope. Torah is hope. The idea that we all stood at Sinai becomes more real and tangible when we consider the incredible hope that can come from Torah, and moreover, from a connection with God. When the idea of spiritual comfort becomes personalized and owned, tremendous hope can result.

Not so long ago I found myself, and my Jewish community, confronted with a terrible and frightful hatred, a hatred that filled me with pain and fear. In addressing such hatred, I was asked to represent the Jewish people at a rally of 2,000 students. I was terrified, unbelievably terrified. And then this amazing thing happened. As I was standing on a grass hill, shaking, waiting for the crowd to descend, the bodies started to flock into the field. Streams, masses, flanks of human bodies moved in from all directions. Voices rose in protest and in song. I started to cry. I hadn’t cried all through this trauma until that moment, but I started to cry. I felt hope, real tangible hope. I looked up at the stars and cried, silently, to God. When a cloud of pollen blew over the crowds, when women danced to the beat of African drums, when I felt my heart loose its knot, I knew God was with me. That is what God is in my life: the feeling of never being alone. But here’s where the Torah comes in. Before Sinai we had God. Before Sinai we had freedom. But before Sinai we did not yet have an articulated sense of communal wisdom.

Sinai was a time when the Jews began the long and arduous process of becoming a people. We began to give order to our lives, to accept order into our lives. We began the struggle of bringing a divine morality into the often cold human world. We began to ask God for formal guidance; we began to hear God’s reply. This is a process that continues. That’s why we were all at Sinai, because Torah is not dead, is not old, is not complete. Every Jew stood at Sinai, so we cannot fully understand those words, without the input of every witness. When we listen deep within our hearts, God still speaks to us, still comforts us. When we listen deep within Torah, God is also speaking to us, also comforting us. I believe that.

A five-year old girl taught me that the Torah is "a tree of life and hope." My hope is that in the coming month, and in the celebration of Shavuot, life and hope are exalted. By listening, really listening, to the music that our hearts are singing, we stand at Sinai every day. Torah lives when we let her live. Hope exists when we have the courage to invite her inside. May this month be witness to a life filled with hope.