(1) Describe Elijah in today’s Haftorah as wearily looking for God in the desert, tired of the treachery of his people Israel, etc. Then, read from the middle of I Kings verse 11 through verse 13. (2) Here indeed, in a story as simple as a fable and as powerful as drama, lies the kernel of the message of Judaism for our day and all days. The message of God is not in powerful winds. You cannot disseminate religion as if it were merchandise. You cannot sell godliness like you sell soap. Wind and sound and propaganda and advertising techniques will just not do. Lo ba’ruach Hashem.
The message of God is not in earthquakes. Size and activity of certain kinds are no assurances of true religion. A big building does not mean a great spirit. Earth-shaking structures do not move the heavens. You get no closer to God through big campaigns. Lo ba’ra’ash Hashem.
The message of God is not in fire. Oratory, denunciation, zeal, artificial enthusiasm, will not produce the voice of God. Heat alone cannot generate closeness to God. Something else is needed. Lo va’eish Hashem.
Where then does the message of God lie? What are the optimum conditions under which a man can hear the voice of God moving within him? – In the kol d'mamah dakah, in the “still, small voice.” The very expression is a paradox. For if there is a voice, it is not still, and if it is still, there is no voice. Yet this is just what our Torah teaches. Like a voice, it must have individuality, personality and meaningfulness – a specific Jewish message. Yet all this must be perceived in silence. When there is silence, when all the strange noises all about us have been lowered, when we have silenced the roar of the machines, the din of radio and television, the bleating of our egos and desires, the hollow noises of our shallow nonsenses, after all the extraneous sounds have been stilled and we concentrate on the silence, then and only then can we hear God speaking, the voice of religion asking the ultimate question, the one it takes a lifetime to answer: Mah l'cha po Eliyahu, “What doest thou here, Elijah?” What is it all about? What is the reason for my existence? Now that it’s quiet, what was all the noise about? What is my purpose in life?
That question cannot be heard, much less answered, when men concentrate on the noises, on the propaganda and the superficial.
Many of us are now preparing to go away on vacations of varying length. Some of us will be at the beach, others in the country, and still others will travel.
I have no doubt that very many of us will turn our eyes heavenward and thank God for what we see. Some of us will look out over the vast expanses of the Atlantic, perhaps thrill at the moonbeams playing on the incessant waves, and from the depths of our heart exclaim, “Ah, God created a wonderful world.” Others will marvel at the beautiful contours of rolling plains and hills, valleys and cliffs, rustic scenery and all kinds of wildlife, and then too conclude, “What a great God to create such a great world.” Fine. The sentiments are noble beyond reproach. We should do more of it in the same way. It’s true, God created all this, and it teaches you something. But you won’t hear God’s voice there. It doesn’t last. The wind-swept Atlantic, the valleys, the waterfalls, the rainbows are all God’s handiwork, but not His microphone.
I wonder how many of us will try something else. Let me say that I know that 99% won’t, because it is much too difficult and much too frightening. It can drive one insane. What I refer to is the Vayalet panav ba’adarto va’yeitzei va’ya’amod pesach ha’me’arah, “he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out and stood out in the entrance of the cave.” I mean to leave the party for a while, yes – a short respite from the gin or bridge game – to go off on a side, even away from the breathtaking natural phenomena, away from all the noise, just wrap yourself in your mantle, perhaps even literally in your tallit, and wait a while.
I dare say that it can be a terrible experience. Because in the silence and loneliness, a question begins to crop up in your consciousness, a question so crucial to your entire being that it can shake a man to the bottom of his soul. The question seems to be a Godly one: Mah l’cha po? What are you doing here, what are you on this earth for, what’s it all about? It’s a question you’re too busy to hear otherwise. But now it’s audible. It’s God’s challenge. Mah l’cha po. What’s the purpose of all your toil and work and existence?
It is a question that is sharp and searching. But to hear the question is to beg for the answer. Elijah gave it, this time in quiet not loud, soft and not fiery, syllables: Kano kinesi la’Hashem Elokei Tzva’ot. I have been jealous of the Lord, God of Hosts. What am I doing here? I am trying to lead a godly life, and that is the goal, purpose, and end of all. When I can hear the question and face it, then I can begin to answer it. When I can hear God in silence, I can begin to understand the noise – its value and lack of value. But the question cannot be heard above the daily din. When we are busy asking “what are you doing tonight?” or “do you know what so-and-so did yesterday?” we cannot hope to hear the important question of Mah l’cha po. We must get off to a side, wrap ourselves up in the mantle and, in the kol d’mamah dakah hear God Himself saying Mah l’cha po. Then we can answer kano kinesi, that Torah and Jewishness are my aim and purpose in life.
This week, this Rabbi will attend the annual convention of RCA, the national organization of young Orthodox Rabbis taking place in Detroit. It is my hope and prayer that nothing sensational will result. I hope that it will not make too many and too big headlines. I hope that we shall not emulate the wind of one national non-traditional body which recently exploded a bombshell about changing the ketubah. I hope we shall not copy the fiery zeal of the Reform Rabbinate which, having convinced itself that all Jews are good Jews, is now out on a campaign to proselytize gentiles and make Jews out of them – for the first time, perhaps, in Jewish history, and certainly for the first time in the N.Y. Times. No, I know that I shall not come back and report wind and earthquake and fire. God shuns sensation and headlines. He prefers the kol d'mamah dakah.
That is the purpose for which we meet. To quietly, in a still small voice, sum up the year’s work and plan for the coming year, knowing all the while that constructive and creative work for the Jewish community and for Judaism is not accomplished by sudden splurges of noise and wind, but by slow, quiet everyday labor. I hope to be able to come back and report that we are still working on the answer to Mah l’cha po, that we are slowly but surely progressing, that we are kano kinesi; we are trying in as dignified, solid, and unsensational manner as possible, to build up support for Torah in our synagogue and schools.
I know that the results will be forthcoming in the kol d’mamah dakah. For only thus can we hear and answer God’s crucial question.
When we as Jews and as individuals can succeed in attaining that repose and silence, and hear and answer that Divine question, then we can hope to hear the rest of God’s message: the evil kingdom shall be spoiled, and a new and good king rise in his place; and even after the Elijahs will have left the earthly scene, there will be no despair, for in his place there will come Elishas and prophets evermore, so that Torah, Judaism, Jewishness shall never wane from the human scene.
