Stepping out of the Circle of Control and Embracing Uncertainty

When you enter the synagogue on Yom Kippur, what are you hoping for? What reassurance are you seeking tonight?

I want to offer some reassurance from a story about Honi. You have undoubtedly heard the story of Honi and the carob tree. Before I retell that tale, let’s find out more about this man.

Honi was not a rabbi, which makes it all the more notable that we find him in the Talmud among tales of the Sages. He lived in the first century BCE, that is some time before the Destruction of the Second Temple. He was known as Honi the Circle Drawer.  Here is the story of how he got that title.

Honi had a reputation for the wondrous power of his prayers. Once a drought occurred late in the rainy season. The summer would soon arrive and without rain the crops would be devastated. Desperate, Honi’s students and followers came to ask him to pray for rain.

Honi drew a circle and stood inside it. He called on God in prayer saying, quite audaciously, “I will not budge from this spot unless you bring rain.”

His prayer met with some success. A few drops fell but it was not enough to save the crops. The followers begged him to try again.

Honi made his prayer more specific and more fervent:

“It was not for a few drops of rain I prayed, but for enough rain to fill the wells, cisterns and caves.”

Rain began to fall in such large drops, it was said that each drop held a gallon of water. The followers came to Honi again, pleading with him to change his prayer, for fear that such a rain would destroy the world.

So Honi’s prayer became even more specific and more demanding:

“Not for such a rain did I ask You, but for desirable rain that would be a blessing and a bounty.”

The rain suddenly began falling normally but continued for so long that a torrent flooded the streets. The people of Jerusalem were forced out of their homes to head to higher ground on the Temple mount.

It appears that while Honi possessed great powers, he did not have the power to control his circumstances. Using his power brought the good that he intended, but also led to destruction.

The Sages at the time pondered how to treat Honi. They appreciated the good he was able to do and they were appalled by his arrogance. Though the Talmud includes stories of miracle workers, it teaches that no one can control the uncontrollable. We have no other stories attesting to Honi trying to control the weather after that. Perhaps Honi learned to step outside of the circle, to submit to the unpredictable in a different way.

Today, as we observe the rituals and liturgy of Yom Kippur, we are called to step outside of our circle of control, and to submit to the unpredictable. Yom Kippur centers us in the greatest mystery of all, the mystery of mortality. Who among us has not been moved by the words we mournfully chant in the Unetanah Tokef, Who shall live and who shall die? Life and death are not in our hands.

In a little while we will hear the piyyut, Ki heni Kachomer, comparing our lives to clay in the hand of the potter. The image of God shaping us into a vessel, our fate resting in divine hands, may disturb us with the fatalism that it seems to profess. But I’ve learned from potters that the process of shaping a vessel is not entirely in the potter’s hands either. Aliza Arzt explains the art of pottery in regard to this particular piyyut:

“Too much thinning and the bowl develops a hole.  Too thick and the bowl has a lump.  Too much water and it sags.  Sometimes the potter has to take a break and give the piece time to begin to dry and to “firm up.” Sometimes the piece doesn’t seem to want to assume the shape that the potter is trying for and a compromise needs to be reached. If the potter is too unyielding, the bowl may look fine when it dries, but will crack when it’s fired.” That is, both for the potter and for the clay, the results are unpredictable. Within our hands, yet beyond our control.

Even when we seek to be our best, we fail, we offend, we cause unintended harm. When we enumerate the multiple sins in the al chet confession, we admit: for the sins we committed that are willful and thoughtless, and for sins committed both knowingly and unwittingly. Even when we believe we are in control of our actions, we cannot control the outcome.

Only weeks ago we had joyfully anticipated returning fully to services in person without masks. We have been so careful. We have isolated, we have kept social distance, we have worn masks, we have been vaccinated. And now, where have we ended up?

We have ended up in a Yom Kippur state of mind: living with uncertainty. It is not that uncertainty is new. All life is weighed down with uncertainty. But we have been living with the illusion that we are in control of our future. Now that that comfort is gone, our eyes have been opened to the possibilities that surround us. We have noticed the tulips, as if they have never been so plentiful. We have heard the songs of birds, as if they have been awakened to life. We have cherished the laughter of little children, the joy of a smile without a mask, or even a hug, as if we have never known the fullness of that joy before.

Perhaps we can learn, therefore, to embrace uncertainty.

What do we give up when we embrace uncertainty? We give up our emphatic hold on results. We give up our tightly clasped expectations. We give up our need to control others. We give up our grasp over our children’s choices, what they will hold dear from our teachings and who we think they will become.

And what do we have to gain? We are released from the paralysis of anxiety and worry. We turn our attention to what endures: acts of kindness, generosity, and compassion. We discover the value of listening to others. We lovingly observe as our children astound us with their growth. We open ourselves to be right here, right now, embracing life as it unfolds.

Let uncertainty be our teacher, patiently helping us to learn and to grow.

While we embrace uncertainty, we may rightly wonder, what then is within our control?

Now is the time for the story of Honi and the carob tree.

Sometime later, Honi saw a man planting a carob tree.

He scoffed at the man and asked him, “Don’t you know it takes 70 years for a carob tree to bear fruit? What do you have to gain from this?”

The man replied, “When I came into this world, I found carob trees. As my ancestors planted for me, so will I plant for my descendants.”

Honi sat down near the tree. He ate and then fell asleep.

Over time a grotto formed around him, hiding him as he slept.

70 years later, he awoke to find a man collecting carobs from the tree.

Astounded he asked, “Are you the man who planted this tree?”
The man laughed. “No, that was my father’s father.”

From this story, we can learn how one lives boldly into uncertainty.

First, we acknowledge those who provided for us in the past.

“As my ancestors planted for me, so I plant for my descendants.”

What a gift to reap the harvest of the fruits of their labors, and with that harvest, to treasure those who came before. In all their imperfections and misguided judgements--this one thing, they did right. And we are deeply grateful.
Second, we learn from those who came before to live with the faith that guided them to act even when they knew they would not live to see the harvest. And yet they planted. More than the harvest itself, their greatest gift is that faith and faithfulness, that belief in our future.

Third, we have been given the vision of a world where planting seeds is a way of sharing unconditionally, of living in the moment, and of embracing uncertainty with love and joy.

We plant for the future even if we can’t plan for the future.

We plant, with hope, a hope that arises from not knowing.  

We plant, because we respond to the call to plant. And then we respond to the call to let go of the harvest, to hand it over to the unknown.

In these uncertain times, may we have the courage to step outside of our circle of control. May we have the tenderness to embrace uncertainty.

And may we live with the faith that what truly matters, what is truly worthy of eternity will endure.  Ken yehi ratzon

 

Rabbi Barbara Penzner

Temple Hillel B’nai Torah

Yom Kippur 5782