Bitterness can be
hard to let go. Case in point:
Chapter 1 of the book of
Exodus: וימררו את חייהם בעבודה קשה Vayemar’ru et chayehem
ba'avoda kasha.
The Egyptians embittered
the Israelites’ lives with hard labor.
Ch. 15 of the book of
Exodus: After leaving Egypt, after
crossing the sea and singing the song of thanksgiving and victory, the
Israelites came to Marah ולא יכלו לשתות מים ממרה כי מרים הם v’lo yachlu lishot mayim mimarah ki marim hem.
They couldn’t drink the
waters of Marah because they were bitter.
Hence the name Marah, bitterness. (Exodus 15:23)
How interesting, how sad,
how understandable, how human – that the bitterness that the Egyptians imposed
somehow remained with the Israelites even after they left Egypt and began to experience freedom.
This morning, on the last
day of Passover, with the resonance of the Passover story still with us and the
resonance of loved ones present and no longer present powerful for each of us,
I want to talk about bitterness.
The understandable, yet ultimately corrosive feelings of bitterness that
most of us have felt at some point or another and possibly are feeling for whatever
reason even now.
Did someone hurt us
physically or emotionally? Does life feel unfair?
Did we not get what we
felt we deserved? Were we
discriminated against for one reason or another?
I would define bitterness
as the feeling of hurt and resentment that perpetuates a sense of victimhood and misery.
Someone else can embitter
our lives, as the Egyptians did for our ancestors, but the extent to which we
continue to feel bitter, even after the initial impetus may be gone, often depends
more on our volition than we realize – a version of Eleanor Roosevelt’s often
quoted statement, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”
By and large, no one can
impose lifelong bitterness on us without our consent. This can be hard to accept, but what we do with our bitter feelings is largely up to us.
As I’ve often said, the
Bible provides moral instruction but not in a pedantic way – it provides
instruction by inviting us if we wish to consider ourselves against a backdrop
of national narratives that hinge upon the stories of individuals.
So in connection with the
notion of bitterness, I want to present for our consideration and possible
identification two narratives about the final days of two major Israelite
leaders – Moses and David.
I’ll go in reverse
chronological order and I think you’ll soon see why. King David had many challenges in his life – some of which
he caused, others not.
At the end of his life, he
is old and weak. The Bible tells us לא יחם לו lo yicham lo – he never felt warm. (1 Kings 1:1)
His final days are marked
by palace intrigue. His
instructions to his son Solomon begin with “be strong” and “keep God’s
ways.” But then he switches gears
and instructs Solomon to take revenge on the people who wronged him. He devotes more words to the theme of
revenge than he does to the theme of following God’s ways. And his final words as recorded in the
Bible are not about God’s ways, they are not about strength. They are about sending someone’s gray
hair down to Sheol covered in blood.
He says that final sentence and then he dies.
His final hours and words
suggest pervasive bitterness.
Earlier in the collective
Israelite story, a major leader conducts himself quite differently at the end
his life. Moses has multiple
challenges throughout his life – some of which he causes, others not. We know that the people complain about
him constantly, he expresses his frustration with them and with God from time
to time.
He is denied something
that he dearly wants, and that is the opportunity to enter the land that God
has promised to the Israelites.
This is a major
disappointment. As recalled in the
Book of Deuteronomy, he implores God to let him enter and God says to him,
“Don’t talk to me about this any more.”
At which point Moses turns
his attention to finding a successor to lead the Israelites into the land and
continues to do what he can to provide them with a legacy of instruction, a
Torah, that they can take with them.
Sure there’s some
residual resentment toward the people. I know that after I die you’ll mess up
big time, he tells them. But
comments like that are followed by instruction for improvement, rather than
calls for revenge.
And at the very end of his
life, when Moses is up on the mountain and looking out onto the land, we are
told לא כהתה עינו ולא נס לחה lo cha’ata eino v’lo nas lecho – his eyes were undimmed and his strength
was undiminished.
What a contrast with King
David who was described at the end of his life as old and
cold.
What a contrast between
Moses, whose focus is on the just society that he can help the Israelites build
and David, whose focus is on revenge.
What a contrast between Moses, who looks toward the promised land and David,
who is focused on Sheol, the pit of darkness.
Bitterness is
understandable but it’s corrosive.
Looking back on his
release from 27 years of prison, Nelson Mandela said the following: “As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my
freedom, I knew if I didn't leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I'd still be
in prison.”
Martin Luther King Jr,
said the following in August of 1963:
“There is something
that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into
the palace of justice. In the
process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful
deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy
our thirst for freedom by drinking form the cup of bitterness and hatred.”
It’s not a question of
forgetting about the slights or injustice or suffering that we have endured
from whatever source – it’s a question of whether we allow all of that to
crystallize into paralyzing bitterness or encourage it to crystallize into
productive resolve.
Maya Angelou made this
point by distinguishing between bitterness and anger:
In an interview in 2003 she said, “You should be
angry. You must not be bitter. Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the
host. It doesn’t do anything to the object of its displeasure. So use that
anger. You write it. You paint it. You dance it. You march it. You vote it.”
In a few moments, we’re going to reflect on loved
ones who died, loved ones whom we knew well in one capacity or another. I ask us to consider the ways in which
they transcended life’s bitterness to create opportunity for themselves and
others and to consider ways in which, sadly, they may have allowed bitterness
to prevail.
And mostly, I ask us to look at ourselves and to
ask ourselves if we have allowed our own bitterness to fester in ways that do
no good for anyone, least of all ourselves.
For most of us, the eating of the maror is a
memorable part of the seder – a curious sort of highlight.
It seems that our ancestors who influenced the
structure of the seder understood something very important about
bitterness. Feel it, taste it, but
then try to move on. Move on to the
next part of the seder, shulchan orech.
Set life’s table. Enjoy
life’s sweetness. Advocate to
minimize future bitterness for yourself and others.
Embrace your inner Moses more than your inner
David.
Our oppressors don’t get
to define us and life’s misfortunes don’t get to define us. The bitterness that they impose is real
and will not be forgotten, but it need not fester and paralyze us and imprison
us.
ונאמר לפניו שירה חדשה V’nomar l’fanav shira
chadasha. We, like our ancient and
contemporary role models, can sing a new song that enables us to use the full
range of our experience, the bitter and the sweet, to bring goodness
to ourselves and to others.
This song can be really hard to sing. But it's the essence of freedom.
This song can be really hard to sing. But it's the essence of freedom.
Originally shared with the Temple Israel of Great Neck community on the eighth day of Passover 5776, shortly before Yizkor
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