At the 1991 Grammy Awards Bob Dylan received a Lifetime Achievement Award. Jack Nicholson handed an award to Dylan who then made a cryptic statement (and I won’t try in any way to imitate Bob Dylan’s iconic voice so you’ll just have to imagine it in your head):
…my daddy, he didn’t leave me much, you know he was a very simple man, but what he did tell me was this …he said ‘you know it’s possible to become so defiled in this world that your own mother and father will abandon you and if that happens, God will always believe in your ability to mend your ways.
Bob Dylan walked off the stage, the audience clapped politely, and I don’t think anyone knew what he meant. But a few years later the internet came along and there were message boards and online forums and listservs. (I had to teach my children what an email listserv is recently; they found the idea intriguing).
In 1998, very much still the era of Internet 1.0, the source of Dylan’s Grammy speech was identified. Bob Dylan, in the name of his father, Abe Zimmerman, was quoting Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch’s commentary to Psalms 27:10.
כִּֽי־אָבִ֣י וְאִמִּ֣י עֲזָב֑וּנִי וַֽה יַאַסְפֵֽנִי׃
For my father and my mother have abandoned me, but God has taken me in. Rav Hirsch comments:
“Even if I were so depraved that my own mother and father would abandon me to my own devices, God would still gather me up and believe in my ability to mend my ways.”
This is almost exactly what Bob Dylan shared at the Grammys. Note that both Rav Hirsch and Dylan reverse the order of the verse from אָבִ֣י וְאִמִּ֣י to “mother and father.”
Identifying this source begs the question: How is it that Bob Dylan came to familiarize himself with Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch’s commentary to Tehilim. Feldheim published a two volume English edition of Rav Hirsch’s commentary to Tehilim in 1960 but there is no reason to think that Dylan or his father were familiar with the book or studied it regularly.
But Psalm 27 isn’t just part of Sefer Tehilim, it’s also part of our liturgy as our “song of the season” and we recite it after Shacharit and after Maariv each day from the beginning of Elul through the end of the fall holiday season. Which means every siddur should contain Psalm 27 and it just so happens that the Metzudah English-Hebrew Siddur, which was published in 1981, has an extended quotation from Rav Hirsch on the same page as Psalm 27. The Metzudah siddur was very popular with ba’alei teshuvah and other adults exploring Judaism and tefilah. And it was published just as Bob Dylan had his own return to Judaism which included a famous 1983 visit to Jerusalem.
So what does it mean when Psalm 27 declares:
כִּֽי־אָבִ֣י וְאִמִּ֣י עֲזָב֑וּנִי וַֽה יַאַסְפֵֽנִי׃
For my father and my mother have abandoned me, but God has taken me in.
Rashi believes this verse refers to the moment of conception itself when father and mother have already moved on to other concerns and God alone is left to care for and nurture the nascent life.
Malbim, in the 19th century, explains that the verse is a metaphor. The speaker compares himself to an orphan as a way of emphasizing his dependence on God. As a dependent he then asks for God’s guidance. In the Malbim’s words ממשיל א”ע כיתום שעזבוהו אביו ואמו.
And a full and fulfilled human life, in which we form loving bonds with family and friends, will also entail the deaths of family and friends. Our parents do leave us. And that can be experienced as a betrayal.
In a memorable stanza from a poem entitled Cave Paintings, my teacher Rabbi David Ebner z’l, whose first yahrzeit was marked this week, describes this phenomenon:
How the teachers assigned
to guide us into culture
looked forward
to taking us
to the zoo
to the ice cream factory
to the planetarium;
but how they dreaded
the museum trip
when the only thing
we could be amazed at,
(other than the naked people)
was how old things were,
which meant little
when the only death we knew about
was a goldfish
or a hamster.
But we
would never die
nor even grow old
or bald
or look forward to broccoli.
And now
when we have stood
by the open pits
marking the archeological dig
of our lives,
the graves of those who would
never leave us
who were always there
because that was the way
things were
whom we loved and hated
and loved again
because that was the way
things were,
when we have shouted into the abyss
and no echo has resounded…begin to understand our teachers.
The teachers in the poem dreaded the museum trip because children have no capacity to place their present existence in any historical context. Children cannot know that the circumstances of their lives, however comfortable and stable, are fleeting. It takes standing by the open pits, the archeological dig of our lives, before we finally understand what our teachers understood all along. We feel betrayed by the promises of those who would always be there.
Our truest and most enduring relationship is with God. From our conception through the deaths of everyone we have known and loved, God takes us in.
But Parashat Ki Tavo offers another model for how we relate to our parents and our ancestors and, through them, to God. It complements the sense of abandonment expressed in Psalm 27 without contradicting it.
Moshe’s “mitzvah speech” comprises most of Sefer Devarim and stretches from Chapter Five in Parashat Va’ethanan all the way to Chapter Twenty Six at the beginning of Parashat Ki Tavo. And this great mitzvah speech concludes with two agricultural mitzvot that orient a Jewish farmer, as he celebrates a bountiful harvest, around his obligation to his past and to his people. He brings first fruits and then places himself at the culmination of Jewish history:
אֲרַמִּי֙ אֹבֵ֣ד אָבִ֔י וַיֵּ֣רֶד מִצְרַ֔יְמָה וַיָּ֥גׇר שָׁ֖ם בִּמְתֵ֣י מְעָ֑ט וַֽיְהִי־שָׁ֕ם לְג֥וֹי גָּד֖וֹל עָצ֥וּם וָרָֽב׃
וַיָּרֵ֧עוּ אֹתָ֛נוּ הַמִּצְרִ֖ים וַיְעַנּ֑וּנוּ וַיִּתְּנ֥וּ עָלֵ֖ינוּ עֲבֹדָ֥ה קָשָֽׁה׃
וַנִּצְעַ֕ק אֶל־ה אֱ-לֹהֵ֣י אֲבֹתֵ֑ינוּ וַיִּשְׁמַ֤ע ה֙ אֶת־קֹלֵ֔נוּ וַיַּ֧רְא אֶת־עׇנְיֵ֛נוּ וְאֶת־עֲמָלֵ֖נוּ וְאֶֽת־לַחֲצֵֽנוּ׃
וַיּוֹצִאֵ֤נוּ ה֙ מִמִּצְרַ֔יִם בְּיָ֤ד חֲזָקָה֙ וּבִזְרֹ֣עַ נְטוּיָ֔ה וּבְמֹרָ֖א גָּדֹ֑ל וּבְאֹת֖וֹת וּבְמֹפְתִֽים׃
וַיְבִאֵ֖נוּ אֶל־הַמָּק֣וֹם הַזֶּ֑ה וַיִּתֶּן־לָ֙נוּ֙ אֶת־הָאָ֣רֶץ הַזֹּ֔את אֶ֛רֶץ זָבַ֥ת חָלָ֖ב וּדְבָֽשׁ׃
וְעַתָּ֗ה הִנֵּ֤ה הֵבֵ֙אתִי֙ אֶת־רֵאשִׁית֙ פְּרִ֣י הָאֲדָמָ֔ה אֲשֶׁר־נָתַ֥תָּה לִּ֖י ה׳ וגו׳
You shall then recite as follows before the LORD your God: “My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation.
The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us.
We cried to the LORD, the God of our fathers, and the LORD heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression.
The LORD freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents.
He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.
Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O LORD, have given me.”
The next and final mitzvah in this speech is the declaration of tithes, in which, after certifying that he has done all that he is supposed to do and violated no rules or regulations concerning tithing and the disbursement of tithed produce, the farmer calls forth God’s blessing for the future, in light of the past:
הַשְׁקִ֩יפָה֩ מִמְּע֨וֹן קׇדְשְׁךָ֜ מִן־הַשָּׁמַ֗יִם וּבָרֵ֤ךְ אֶֽת־עַמְּךָ֙ אֶת־יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְאֵת֙ הָאֲדָמָ֔ה אֲשֶׁ֥ר נָתַ֖תָּה לָ֑נוּ כַּאֲשֶׁ֤ר נִשְׁבַּ֙עְתָּ֙ לַאֲבֹתֵ֔ינוּ אֶ֛רֶץ זָבַ֥ת חָלָ֖ב וּדְבָֽשׁ׃
“Look down from Your holy abode, from heaven, and bless Your people Israel and the soil You have given us, a land flowing with milk and honey, as You swore to our fathers.”’
In these two mitzvot, past, present and future, merge in the context of a prayerful intimacy with God. Notice how the farmer shifts into the first person as he begins to recount the story of Jewish history. אֲרַמִּי֙ אֹבֵ֣ד אָבִ֔י וַיֵּ֣רֶד מִצְרַ֔יְמָה he begins in the third person – My father was a wandering Aramean and *he* went down to Egypt. But, notice the shift. The Egyptians treated *us* harshly. And *we* called out to God. The declaration of first-fruits is a declaration of identification with the Jewish people and its history and its story. The confession of tithes is the same. The farmer affirms that he did all that was asked of him and then confidently and boldly demands that God, today, fulfill God’s promises to the farmer’s ancestors.
My ancestors’ relationship with God is part of my own story as a Jew. The blessings I request for the future are fulfillments of promises made to them.
It is true that our relationship with God is the one relationship that endures when others let us down or leave this earth. But a Jew is never disconnected from the past, and grief is the emotional tax we pay for the privilege of living and loving in this world.
Rashi is correct that only God can create life. Malbim is correct that we depend on God for guidance that no human being can provide. Rav Hirsch is correct that God’s willingness to accept repentance represents a form of love that no mortal can bestow. And our Parasha also reminds us that we approach God, in this holiday season and throughout the year, not as orphans, but as proud sons and daughters of the Jewish people.
This is the season of Psalm 27. The season includes days of Selichot and days of repentance. The season includes Days of Awe and days of celebration. The season includes Yizkor prayers and yahrzeit candles and the season includes lulav, etrog, and caramel apples. The season includes hospitality and feasting and the season includes shopping, cooking, and washing dishes.
The holidays are a time when families come together in harmony, and the holidays are a time when families bring up old arguments. They are also a time when we call upon Avinu Malkeinu, and refer to God as both a sovereign and as a true parent.
Psalm 27 concludes with a reminder that, in the midst of all of this, we can break out of our ordinary routines and dwell in the house of God: שבתי בבית ה׳. We can remember those who brought us here. We can mourn those who are no longer with us. And we can trust that the relationship that carried them, and carries us, will endure.
קַוֵּ֗ה אֶל־ה חֲ֭זַק וְיַאֲמֵ֣ץ לִבֶּ֑ךָ וְ֝קַוֵּ֗ה אֶל־ה
Look to the LORD;
be strong and of good courage!
O look to the LORD!
Rabbi David Wolkenfeld 