It might seem we choose a story at random, but it is not random. We choose a story intentionally, that is, with intent. Hebrew for intention is kavanah, from the word kav, meaning line. Between our expressed intention and the chosen story is a straight line. A straight line need not begin at the beginning nor end at the ending. It can have a prequel or a sequel, or an abundance of parallel lines, all yielding never-ending stories. All this emanates from an intent – a kavanah.

I suggested an intention by way of example – to bring the Messiah. A volunteer from the Zoom rooms had a more modest intention – to contribute energy to the discussion. He chose Page #287 from Volume #2 of Buber’s Tales of the Hasidim. We read this story from the page –

When a disciple of the rabbi of Lentshno visited the rabbi of Kotzk, his host said to him: “Give my greetings to your teacher. I love him very much. But why does he cry to God to send the Messiah? Why does he not rather cry to Israel to turn to God? It is written: “Wherefore criest thou unto Me? Speak to the children of Israel.’”

Our prior intention was to bring the Messiah, and that intention seemed a direct line to the story selected. That line continued with this parallel original statement:

When wise people come to complain about the wickedness in the world – let them know it’s their fault. The fault isn’t with the wicked people but with the wise.

And that led to this this anecdote:

A congregant called a rabbi emeritus to complain about the state of things in the synagogue. The rabbi responded, “Why are you complaining to me? It’s your fault! You see what’s happening, and you let it happen.”

And that anecdote led to this development:

It is told: There was once a family that considered itself politically active – a mother, a father, and a college age child. The child looked at the world and saw it in distress. He asked his parents – how could you let this happen? The parents said to the child – it’s your fault. What are you going to do about it? The child responded – what do you expect me to do?

The story expanded:

The son said – what do you expect me to do? Even if one votes and one marches and one writes letters of protest, that isn’t going to change anything!

The parents responded – did you write and send a letter? What happens when you write is that your position becomes clearer – your intent is expressed. An expressed intention has the strength of a single line, but when a single line braided with other lines it becomes a rope capable of pulling a new order into being. As for voting, you can’t vote until November, but you might apply to be a poll worker. In writing your application you strengthen your intention. Intention, resolution, focus … all lead toward change.

That’s what the Kotzker is saying. Why should you call out to me? You are the ones who bring the Messiah.

Adam added a teaching:

A prequel to the story: A teaching from the Ishbitzer Rebbe elucidating Avraham’s lech l’cha moment (the first encounter with God leading Abraham to embark on the intergenerational saga of the Jewish people) referencing the famous midrashic parable of the Burning Castle (bira doleket): A man is walking down the road and sees a burning castle. He asks, “who is the owner of this castle?” It was at that moment that the owner popped his head out of the window and proclaimed, “I am the owner of the castle.”

The Ishbitzer explains Abraham’s lech l’cha moment through the lens of this parable. Abraham saw that the world was the way it was and asked “who is the owner here?!” Abraham felt the disconnect between his own feelings about how the world should be and the reality of how the world actually was, and that was his lech l’cha moment. It was Abraham’s questioning of the world and his inner longing for the world to be different that led to his awareness of a Creator. Why would it occur to us that the world could be different from what it is? What is that murmuring that makes us feel something is not as it should be? Whose voice is nudging us to make change?

The teaching led to a parallel story:

During Covid an elderly couple was quarantined in their tenth-floor condo. A Black Lives Matter march was scheduled to pass on the avenue below. They could not march but were moved to participate. What did they do? They made a banner from an old sheet, writing on it Black Lives Matter, but by the time they finished the banner and tied it to their terrace railing, the last of the marchers had passed. What had they accomplished? Perhaps, if they had acted more quickly, some of the marchers might have seen the banner and been encouraged. But, as it was, their writing and intent had encouraged them. And so, they resolved to find other ways to make a difference.

How does one allow anecdotes and stories to rise to the surface? One surrenders. Adam offered a teaching concerning surrender –

These wonderful sessions have been driven by our willingness to surrender–surrender to a seemingly randomly selected text, surrender to noticing the connection between two seemingly disconnected points, and surrender to the vulnerability of following this path wherever it leads. Perhaps there is something to this surrendering. The story led us to think about our involvement to make and be the change we want to see. What does it mean when we do not see the fruits of our labors? How do we continue to feel important or impactful to create and further change if/when our efforts seem barren? The Ishbitzer concludes his teaching noting that the questioning was enough. It was Abraham’s questioning that led to his lech l’cha moment. His questioning alone was what led him to recognize the Creator furthering creation along. The moments calling us to be the change, be a part of a cause, vote, stand up against whatever it is we are called to challenge, those moments are our lech l’cha moments. As long as we are deeply attuned to and aware of what is being asked of us in the moment, we can engage with the world in a way that allows the Divine voice within to manifest through us and impact the trajectory of creation. It’s not necessarily about fixing the problems we see–it is about working towards the fixing of those problems.

Surrendering. In these sessions we have surrendered to the Infinite guiding us along this journey and presenting each of us with the stories and teachings we each needed to encounter in real time. The gleanings from our time together deepen and expand as we turn over and continue these stories again and again.

This morning, in my weekly havruta with Mitch, we discussed surrendering. This evening, we surrendered to a text. The text took us down a path of feeling hopeless at our failures to overturn and overcome the things we know within our depths to be wrong. The acknowledgment of the feelings that come with such disappointment handed over to the next generation led to this above teaching.

As I reflect on the trajectory of this day, I am comforted by the reminder that it is not about the completion of the task at hand, but about our mandate to actively be involved in that path following the trajectory of accomplishing that goal; to surrender to what is being asked of us and surrender to how it all unfolds regardless of the outcome.

Another story from Buber, this one but a single line, attracted our attention, Page #250, Volume #2:

Rabbi Bunam said: “Man is always passing through two doors: out of this world and into the next, and out and in again.”

That’s the complete story. To anchor it in our understanding we required some vocabulary. This world in Hebrew is olam ha-zeh; the next world is olam ha-ba. The next, or ha-ba, might be thought of as the world that comes into being after this world ceases to exist. That’s the way it is most often encountered in Jewish tradition. But here next is understood as adjacent. The adjacent world is the reflection of this world.

Consider the table around which we are sitting in this world. This table and its company have its reflection in the adjacent world. The Hebrew expressions are familia shal mata and familia shel mala. We move back and forth between these worlds. Consider your sleeping self. It is surely experiencing the adjacent world. Even your awareness when waking is moving back and forth between worlds. What one processes in this world has an effect in the adjacent realm and vice versa.

After clarifying the vocabulary, this story came to the surface:

It is told: There was a spiritual seeker wanting to perfect his soul, so he climbed the mountain to inquire of the Master. “Here’s a bucket,” the Master said. “At the bottom of the mountain is a lake. Purify all the water in the lake and you will learn how to perfect your soul.”

The seeker filled the bucket with water and considered how to purify it. He poured the water through a filter and back into the lake. He returned to the Master and asked, “What have I accomplished? I refined one bucket of water, but what difference does that make in a lake?” The Master instructed him to do it again. And again. And again, until the seeker learned the intended lesson.

The seeker learned that the activities of each day are like a bucketful of soul to be refined through the filter of life experience. Each day, another bucketful, day after day. In the course of a lifetime a soul might be refined.

We were attracted to another story, this one from Volume #1, Page #283.

Again and again, the community of Ludmir asked him (Rabbi Shelomo) to come to them, for many of his friends lived there. He always refused. But when envoys from Ludmir came to him once more – it was on Lag ba-Omer on the thirty-third day of the days of the counting of Omer, between the feast of Passover and the Revelation (at Sinai) – he asked them smilingly: “And what do you do in Ludmir on Lag ba-Omer?”

“Well,” said the envoys, “just what is usually done. All the boys, big and the little, go out into the fields with the bows and shoot.”

The Rabbi laughed and said: “Well, if that’s the way it is, if you shoot, that makes all the difference! Then I will come to you!”

And that reminded us of a parallel story:

A village plagued by drought sent for a rabbi famed for the power of his blessings for rain. They went to considerable expense to bring him in. The entire community gathered to hear his blessing, but when the time came for him to pronounce it, he said nothing.

“Why don’t you say the blessing?” they asked.

“Because it won’t work.”

“But we paid you a lot of money to come here and say the blessing.”

“You paid me to come here. The blessing I would pronounce for free if you only had faith it would work.”

“Isn’t the fact that we paid your expenses faith enough?”

“If you had faith enough,” the rabbi said, “you would have brought umbrellas.”

What convinced the rabbi of Ludmir to visit the community was the shooting of the arrows. Not only did the community talk about what happened on Lag ba-Omer, they put it into practice.

We visited another story, Volume #1, Page #119:

When Rabbi Pinhas visited the Baal Shem for the first time, his host looked at him for quite a while and then sent for the doctor to let his guest’s blood (a medical treatment). But before he began, the Baal Shem warned him to be careful to do it right, for, so he said: “That is holy blood, preserved ever since the six days of creation. If you are not quite sure your hand is steady,” he added jestingly, “better tap my vein!”

A parallel story emerged:

A mother took her young daughter to the doctor for a vaccination. The daughter was fearful of receiving it. “What if we vaccinated your mother first?” the doctor suggested. The mother said she was fearful, too, but to convince her daughter to receive the vaccination, she submitted.

Afterward, the doctor and the daughter smiled at each other. “It worked,” the daughter said.

One might be hesitant to act unless a leader steps forward to show the path. Here the daughter was the leader.

We had time to open to one last story, Volume #2, Page #218:

When Rabbi Hirsch returned from his wife’s funeral and went up the stairs to his room, he was heard saying to himself: “Up to now I have accomplished holy unification by marriage here below, now I shall try to accomplish unification by marriage up above…

We continued the story:

When Rabbi Samuel Hirsch’s Rachel died, the entire town went into mourning. Not only was Rachel precious to the community, but the marriage was precious also. At weddings in that town the custom was to bless the newlyweds – “May your marriage be as complete and fulfilling as that of our beloved Rachel and Samuel.” Alas, with the loss of one partner comes also the loss of a marriage.

The story is never-ending, but the session was time limited. We finished the hour with this:

The community supported Rabbi Samuel through his week of mourning, then allowed him space and consideration during shloshim, the first thirty days. They noticed when he came to the minyan for morning prayers and laid his tefillin, he did so slowly, taking much longer than usual. At first, they thought it was because of the heaviness of his heart, but with the passing of the weeks laying tefillin continued to be for him a slow and deliberate process. At last, they ventured to ask him about it.

“It’s like this,” he said. “I begin with the shel yad, the box for the arm, on the bicep binding me securely into the world of action, then the windings on the forearm to settle my emotions. The shel rosh, the box for the head, I place securely with the knot representing the union of all four worlds pressed securely at the nape of my neck, the two straps descending left and right from my shoulders. All of that is as it was before. But when it comes to arastich li, the moment of betrothal, when I wind the strap as if it were a ring around my finger, I take time to invite my wife from the adjacent world, and I hear her inviting me. We say arastich li to each other, ‘I betroth you to me.’ And that’s why I might seem to take more time than usual.”