Since our fall harvest celebration of Sukkot begins on
Wednesday night, this coming Shabbat is the Sabbath that falls during the
intermediate days of that week-long festival—Shabbat Chol Ha-Moed Sukkot. On that day, it is customary to read the book
of Ecclesiastes.
The best known passage of Ecclesiastes comes from the third
chapter; many of us recognize it immediately from Pete Seeger’s song,
popularized by the Byrds, “Turn, Turn, Turn”:
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the
heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a
time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones
and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a
time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time
to throw away,
a time to tear and a time
to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time
for peace.
The great Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai wrote a poem that I
read as a kind of commentary on this passage.
While the author of Ecclesiastes speaks of everything having its own
time and season, Amichai presents a more complicated picture:
A Man in His Life
A man doesn’t have
time in his life
to have time for
everything.
He doesn’t have
seasons enough to have
a season for every
purpose. Ecclesiastes
was wrong about that.
A man needs to love
and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with
the same eyes,
with the same hands to
throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war
and war in love.
And to hate and
forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and
confuse, to eat and to digest
what history takes
years and years to do.
A man doesn’t have
time.
When he loses he
seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he
forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is
seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains
forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn’t
learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its
pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs
die in autumn,
shriveled and full of
himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry
on the ground,
the bare branches
pointing to the place
where there’s time for
everything.
As we prepare to celebrate Sukkot, consider these two
reflections on life’s passages. Do you
believe that there are separate times for all things under the heavens—or do
you agree with Amichai’s assessment, that we don’t “have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose”?
What difference does it make—does our view on this question
shape the way we live?
Chag Sameach—a joyous and blessed Sukkot to all—
Rabbi Dan
And here's a nice live version of the Byrds:
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