The Month of Heartbreak and Hope
Elul is the month where we begin to dwell in the house of Hashem. So why instead do we feel empty, nursing a broken heart?
Today is Rosh Chodesh Elul, the first day of the Hebrew month immediately preceding the High Holidays. We depart the mournful month of Av - “When Av enters, we reduce our happiness” (Taanit 26b) - and enter the month whose letters are homiletically explained as an abbreviation of the verse, Ani l’dodi v’dodi li (Shir HaShirim 6:3) - “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.” While in Av, God is distant, in Elul He is near. In Elul, we view God as our beloved friend, our spouse. “My dove, my perfect one” (Shir HaShirim 5:2) - “Rabbi Yanai says, [‘My perfect one’ means] My twin: So to speak, I am not greater than her, and she is not greater than Me.” (Midrash Shir HaShirim Rabbah) Throughout Elul, many have the custom to recite Psalm 27 twice a day, which includes the verse, “One thing I asked of Hashem, and that alone I shall request: to dwell in the house of Hashem all the days of my life, so that I can see the sweetness of Hashem and meditate in His sanctuary.” (Tehillim 27:4) Developing a thirst for God alone, we beg Him to respond to our pleas and allow His loving Presence to be manifest among us all. And because this is Elul, we are confident that He will answer our prayers affirmatively.
This is what Elul means. This is what Elul is supposed to mean.
So why instead do we feel so empty, nursing a broken heart?
“The most beautiful of women wanders about within the city walls in the pale, moon-enchanted nights. Early in the dewy, sun-drenched mornings she goes out into the orchards. She is looking for the beloved of her soul, who is standing among the shadows, watching from the byways, peering through the cracks. Lovesick, she searches for her partner. She searches for him but cannot find him. Has her lover left her and forgotten her for eternity? Has he forgotten the affection of their wedding day and departed from her forever?
“The lad with the beautiful eyes skips along the hills, toward his dear bride. He pursues the Shulammite, who hides in rock crannies and behind cliffs. He is attracted by her grace, her image continually before his eyes. He is full of longing, aflame with yearning. With quick steps he approaches his partner, but he does not meet her. The hour of their meeting has arrived; at this very moment the lad retreats and hides among the rocks.
“‘You are beautiful, my beloved, your eyes are doves’ he sings (Shir HaShirim 1:15), hidden among the ancient, glorious hills. He sees her, but cannot be seen. He is very, very close to her, but also immeasurably distant.
“‘And you, my beloved, are handsome and pleasing,’ she replies (Shir HaShirim 1:16) from among the tender river-shoots. Trembling, she rushes out to greet her lover. Her heart pounds: Will he appear from the quiet, glowing horizon? Will he alight before her in the orchard lanes? She hears the rustle of footsteps on the hills, in the valleys, among the tender river-shoots, and in the garden paths where the almond and pomegranate trees blossom. She bestirs herself and goes out to greet him.
“Suddenly the echo melts away and disappears in the sun-drenched distance. He will love her forever; he will always remember the grace of her youth. Just as the bridegroom delights in his bride, so will he delight in her. He has not sent his partner away, nor has he handed her a bill of divorce. Yet, in spite of all this, their love cannot be realized, their yearning cannot be fulfilled completely. But why? Why must he flee from her at the moment that she pursues him? Why does he not look and see that she is mad with longing and yearning? Why does he not say to her, ‘Lift your eyes and see that I have fulfilled my vow and arrived’?...
“Suddenly, her lover appears from the obscurity of the dark night, knocking on his dear one’s door and whispering faithfully, ‘Let me in, my sister, my darling, my faultless dove! For my head is drenched with dew, my locks with the drops of the night.’ (Shir HaShirim 5:2) Now I have arrived, I have kept my word, I have fulfilled the vision. Your desire has been fulfilled, your longing has not been in vain. I have yearned for you; I, the companion of your youth, am now here. You shall follow me and never be separated from me.
“The beloved awakens from her sleep and listens to the gentle voice of her lover. His voice burns its way into her heart, kindling there an ancient flame. It is suffused with both enchantment and desire.
“Nevertheless, the beloved refuses to rise from her bed and open the door to her lover. The cold of the moonless, starless night, deep weariness, laziness, and fear combine to paralyze her will and bind her legs. Why should she refuse to undo the latch and open the door to her lover? Hasn’t she been searching for him day and night? Hasn’t she been pursuing him, asking passersby if they have seen him, adjuring the daughters of Jerusalem and suffering insults, blows, and spiritual torment on his behalf? What has happened? Has all her sense of yearning evaporated under the oppressive torpor of loneliness just at the moment when her lover has arrived? Has the hidden force that stirred her spirit during the days filled with wandering and the nights filled with anticipation and anxiety subsided just at the moment that her lover has fulfilled his pledge and his footsteps are heard at the entrance to her tent? Does desire no longer permeate her being, is the urgency no longer alive within her? At the very moment of fulfillment and realization, the hour of redemption and deliverance, has it all vanished and been silenced? ‘I have taken off my robe - am I to don it again? I have bathed my feet - am I to soil them again?’ (Shir HaShirim 5:3)
“Yet, after a moment the beloved leaps off her bed, her hands dripping myrrh on the handles of the bolt. She opens her abode to her lover. The flame of yearning is sparked once again; her spirit is restored. Her love rages. Her soul’s joy returns. Her heart is afraid yet expands toward her lover. The door opens - but the lover is not there. ‘I rose to let in my beloved… But my beloved had turned and gone!’ (Shir HaShirim 5:5-6)”1
Elul is “The hour of their meeting”... but it may also be the “very moment [that] the lad retreats and hides among the rocks.” Elul is the time when God tells us, “I have yearned for you; I, the companion of your youth, am now here” - and it may also be the occasion of our unhinged response, “I have bathed my feet - am I to soil them again?”
In Elul, God “is very, very close to her,” but that does not preclude His being “also immeasurably distant.” God is “hidden among the ancient, glorious hills,” seeing her without being seen. Close yet far, hiding even as He pleads with us to approach.
And we play our part in this mysterious dance, hiding from God as much as He hides from us.2
Elul is the month of our longing for God. Elul is the month of God’s longing for us. And longing implies distance.
Elul is the month of heartsickness… and hope.
Psalm 27 ends with the verse, “Hope in Hashem, be strong and of good courage, and hope in Hashem.” (Tehillim 27:14)3
Our Sages suggest that the word “hope” refers to prayer. “Rabbi Chama the son of Rabbi Chanina said: If a person saw that he prayed and was not answered, he should pray again, as the verse says, ‘Hope in Hashem, be strong and of good courage, and hope in Hashem.’” (Masechet Berachot 32b)
Prayer is hope directed in dialogue toward God. And when that hope is not answered - which happens all too often - we become despondent, dejected. Prayer without hope is an internal contradiction, an insoluble paradox… which means that the unanswered prayer must be followed by the recognition that this is the way that it works, that our God is a God Who hides, that when “the hour of their meeting has arrived… at this very moment [He] retreats and hides among the rocks.” Prayer is hope, and hope is often unfulfilled. The unheard prayer is disappointing, but, sadly, not surprising. It happens. A lot.
But not always. Although He hides, He does not hide forever; one prayer appears rejected, but perhaps not the next one; today brought disappointment, but perhaps we will experience joy tomorrow, or later today; without warning, “her lover appears from the obscurity of the dark night, knocking on his dear one’s door and whispering faithfully, ‘Let me in, my sister, my darling, my faultless dove! For my head is drenched with dew, my locks with the drops of the night.’”
The last prayer was unanswered, but perhaps it will be the last prayer that was unanswered. Strengthen yourself and be of good courage - and pray again. Hope again. Yesterday there was silence, perhaps today there will be a response. This morning I was crestfallen, but this afternoon is a new opportunity for me to open the door, should He choose to knock.
“Rabbi Eliezer said: Ever since the Temple was destroyed, the gates of prayer are locked… and Rabbi Eliezer said: Ever since the Temple was destroyed, an iron wall blocks the way between Israel and their Father in heaven.” (Masechet Berachot 32b) We cannot force Him to unlock the door or break down the wall, and anyone who is confident that his request will be fulfilled due to the quality of his prayer will end up heartbroken. (See Rashi on Berachot 55a) An important message of Tisha B’Av is that, indeed, God does not have to do anything. But an equally important lesson of Elul is that He may surprise us. We cannot force Him to do our will, we cannot insist that the door be opened, but He may choose to unlock the door nevertheless. Perhaps today; and if not today, then perhaps tomorrow.
Many of us have felt God’s distance over the past eleven months, but perhaps that will start to change. Maybe even right now.
Elul: a month of heartbreak and hope, a time of potential disappointment… and the possibility of joyous surprise.
Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, U’Vikashtem MiSham, translated as And From There You Shall Seek by Naomi Goldblum, pp. 1-4
The failure of the beloved to let her lover into her house, and her subsequent rush to the door only to find that he was no longer there, is the story of the original ninth and tenth of Av. See my article, “Tisha B’Av: A Day for Rejecting Repentance.”
These reflections were inspired by a Facebook post by my friend, Zevy Reich.
For about the last eighteen months, but particularly since 7 October, I've been focused more with davening on the idea of "covenantal community" that Rav Soloveitchik expresses in The Lonely Man of Faith, the idea that davening is a way of forming a community with God and with the Jewish people, now and across history. In this way, there is less sense of being "unanswered" because the purpose of the prayer is the prayer itself, to join with God and the Jewish people, not to ask for something. (I'm not saying that we don't ask for things, because obviously we do, even in our set prayers, but that I connect less with that aspect of davening.) In this way I've been able to feel a connection to God in the last eleven months, not always, but sometimes, even as I feel confused, frightened and sometimes angry towards Him.