This d’var is based on Lev. 6:1-6.
The aish tamid
The first six verses of this morning’s Torah reading announce that these are the rules concerning the olah—the sacrificial offering in which all the meat is burnt so that its smoke ‘ascends’ to God. But, in fact, the early rabbis, and key commentators ever since, have all concluded that this passage is actually about something else: the aish tamid, the ‘continuous fire’ in the Temple. The olah, the offering burning through the night, and the fat parts of the shalom-offerings, and the wood added without fail every morning, are all simply fuel to keep the fire burning without any interruption. In verse 5 we’re told ha-aish … tukad-bo ‘the fire must be kept burning’ in the fireplace; in addition, lo tichbeh ‘it must not go out!’. In verse 6, this time we’re told it’s an aish tamid ‘a continuous fire’–or perhaps even a ‘forever fire’; again tukad ‘it must be kept burning’, and lo tichbeh ‘it must not go out’.
Importantly, this aish tamid is not to be confused with the ner tamid, best translated as the ‘regular flame’, which was lit at night, burned out by the morning, and was relit the following night. The ner tamid was a reminder of the presence of God in the Temple. It’s interesting that this was allowed to go out every morning, and we’ll come back to that later. But what did the aish tamid represent, and why was it so important? We’ll come back to that later too. But before that, I want to talk about today.
Pesach is never a repetition
Over the next few hours, we’ll be making our final, hurried preparations for an evening of chaos and order, seriousness and hilarity. Last year, we sat at the Pesach table, drank the four cups, made the blessings, sang the songs, told the story, and celebrated our festival of freedom. So there’s a certain irony that, a year later, we’ll be right back where we were a year ago—sitting at the same table, drinking four more cups, making the same blessings, singing the same songs, and telling the story all over again. But we don’t have to be trapped in Groundhog Day. Because tonight’s ancient story, if told properly, will be a new one, one we’ve never heard or told before.
Entering the darkness
Yes, Moses will once more urge us to get out of Egypt – Mitzrayim – our personal and collective prisons and narrowness. But each year, the problems, challenges, and obstacles are different. There’s always more inner work to be done, and, sadly, there is much happening in the world that is horrifying, terrifying, and in dire need of a loving and healing response on a vast scale. As the Jewish poet Emma Lazarus wrote in 1883: “Until we are all free, we are none of us free.”
I believe we cannot begin tonight’s journey towards freedom without first bravely and honestly facing the darkest places in our personal self and in the world. I think it’s okay, and in fact essential, to name what overwhelms us or makes us sick to our stomachs, what sends us into panic, what paralyses or numbs us and pulls into despair, what triggers our worst impulses and behaviour, what distracts us and keeps us from our better selves, what habits and beliefs sabotage our resilience and creativity, what keeps us feeling impotent or stumbling about in the dark.
Strangely enough, in Parshat Bo (Ex.10:1), God says to Moses Bo el paroh, not ‘Go’, but ‘Come to Pharoah’. God is where Pharoah is, even in the hardened heart, and the place of stuckness. And when the Israelites finally escape Pharoah, up on Mount Sinai when God speaks, they pull back, still caught in their fear and resistance, while Moses “approached the thick dark cloud where God was” (Ex.20:21). I mentioned the ner tamid earlier – the flame in the Temple, the reminder of God’s presence, goes out regularly and has to be relit; there are times when God feels hidden or absent, ‘goes dark’, as it were. I don’t want to think about it, and I’m uncomfortable mentioning it here, especially on Shabbat, especially on our festival, but we are living through very dark times. We must enter this ‘thick dark cloud’—personally and collectively—if we are to have any chance of finding, or making, some light.
“Turn the dark cloud inside out …”
And this is where the aish tamid comes in. The Rabbis of the Talmud recognised that it takes considerable commitment to keep this fire going. And they concluded that the aish tamid is about how we relate to God. We must do everything we can to keep this relationship going, to keep the fire burning. It is we who must make the light, and keep it shining.
In general terms, we have many choices how to do this Jewishly, depending on our personal and collective outlook: drawing on Torah and Jewish values, saying daily prayers, keeping weekly Shabbat practices, observing the annual cycle of festivals and fasts, going to shul once a year, or dedicating ourselves religiously to secular Judaism and Jewish cultural ways. Our gathering this morning, and our seder tonight, are both part of how we maintain our relationship, finding strength in community, and inspiration in the rituals and stories. But tradition is not enough, and we can even become enslaved to it.
I said earlier that each year at Pesach we face new problems, challenges, and obstacles. Charles Dickens’ character Wilkins Micawber was fond of saying, optimistically, “something will turn up”. But, realistically, we know otherwise. Jonathan Sacks wrote:
“Optimism and hope are not the same. Optimism is the belief that the world is changing for the better; hope is the belief that, together, we can make the world better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It needs no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to hope.”[1]
We must not give up. It is up to us, when faced with darkness, to discover new opportunities, resources, and allies. The 1914 song that goes “Keep the home fires burning, while your hearts are yearning” also has the line, “Turn the dark cloud inside out …”[2]. That takes practice, and it’s usually easier when we help each other. So tonight, let’s take some risks, and face the dark cloud together; let’s make some time to share with each other at least a little of what we’re currently finding difficult. And let’s also share stories of hope, ingenuity, and goodness. We must practice noticing and creating real reasons to hope on the long walk to a mutually supportive freedom for all. We must keep the fire burning.
Shabbat shalom, and chag pesach sameaich.
[1] Jonathan Sacks (2006) To Heal a Fractured World, p. 166
[2] ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ (1914), lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, music by Ivor Novello
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