SHMA.COM
The Zohar and other kabbalistic texts frequently represent the moments of mystical experience and insight as a flash of lightning, as a
blinding radiance that consumes the present, and
then, in an instant, is gone — leaving the person
in a state of wondrous confusion, touched by the
light of God, cloaked in the mystery that brims
with the intrigue of birth and death. What is be-
Adventure and Awe
JAMIE KORNGOLD
Rabbi Jamie Korngold is the
founder of Adventure Rabbi:
Synagogue Without Walls and
the author of God in the
Wilderness (Doubleday 2008)
She can be reached at
www.AdventureRabbi.org.
Several weeks ago, on a Shabbat morning, I was in the mountains discovering once again — and hopefully teaching as well
— the mystery and awe of adventure. I had
brought a group to hike in the mountains;
along with water and plenty of sunscreen we
had prayer books, a guitar, tallis, and text
sheets for Torah study. I’m the Adventure
Rabbi and my synagogue is the wild places, the
forests and mountains outside Boulder, Colo.
On this Shabbat, my congregation was joined
by a visiting group of 20s/30s from Chicago who
were enticed to Colorado to do a service project
and then celebrate Shabbat with our congregation. We stood in a circle surrounded by pink
wild geranium and tall brown grasses and I asked
the group what they hoped to get out of the day.
They mutedly shared, “Spend relaxed time with
the group,” “See wildlife,” and “Check out the
great views.” One participant was looking forward to some quiet time and when I explained
that we would be taking some contemplative
time during our Shabbat service, another person
mumbled under her breath something like,
“There will be no contemplative time here. I did
not come here to contemplate.” The snide comment maker had arrived. There is one in almost
every group who comes here from the big cities.
People for whom wild places are so foreign that
they hide behind the safety of sarcasm. So it goes.
As we left behind the van and the pavement, as we headed up the mountain, we
began to move beyond the chatter of our daily
lives. How does this shift happen? How do we
become present enough to truly engage with
each other and our surroundings?
I introduced the group to “friends of mine”
that live up here — the wild bergamot (a
shaggy, purple wildflower that looks like dog in
a Dr. Seuss book) and the ponderosa pines with
their deep roots and butterscotch-smelling sap.
fore, and what will be after? From where does
this evanescent self emerge, and what will be left
of us in the time to come? Standing in prayer,
eyes closed and heart open, we may feel the
chasm of mystery that fills all of Being — the
presence of God that is not a father, not a king,
but a fullness: a light that revives the soul and
brings us back to our distant center.
We talked about the Yotzer Or, the morning
prayer for creation, and thought about what it
means to say these words surrounded by creation. We took some time to walk in pairs and
point things out to each other that we might
have missed otherwise.
We sat quietly and noticed what we heard.
What does sh’ma, to hear, really mean? What
does, Adonai Echad, God is One mean? Does
hearing imply engaging in relationship? What
does it mean to engage with the oneness of all
being? What does it feel like to sing the Sh’ma
while walking through a wild place, meeting
God’s creation on its terms? What does it feel
like to pray the Sh’ma when you realize you are
part of the “One?”
Our hike became the Psukei D’zimrah (the
warm-up service), so when we reached the summit we jumped right into Barchu, the call to
communal prayer. Our bodies stretched tall like
the mountains beside us, and we watched the
hawks ride the thermals above our heads. By
taking time to notice, by unplugging from the
grid, by daring to try things that felt uncomfortable, by engaging in deep conversation we made
the leap from mundane to holy, from individuals
to community. Together we connected to the
core of Judaism’s mystery, to each other, to the
planet, and therefore (although they might not
have noticed this) to God.
Wild places offer us a unique opportunity
to awaken our Judaism. Nature is indeed a synagogue filled with potential, worthy of our attention and in need of our protection. As Rabbi
Abraham Ben Maimonides taught: “In order to
serve God, one needs access to the enjoyment of
the beauties of nature, such as the contemplation of flower-decorated meadows, majestic
mountains and flowing rivers. For all these are
essential to the spiritual development of even the
holiest of people.”
