Rabbi Eric Rosin
Temple Beth-El
Richmond, Virginia

Since I have not lived in the same town as my parents for so many years, we're always looking for ways to spend time together. Usually, I visit them in Michigan three or four times each year, and they visit me at least once each year wherever I might be living. Every once in a while, though, we'll clear our respective schedules and take a trip together.

One of the best trips that we ever took was to the Grand Canyon . I flew from Los Angeles , they flew from Detroit , and we met in the Phoenix airport and rented a car. It was late fall or early winter and, as we drove out of Phoenix , the crags of the red desert rock slowly gave way to a broken blanket of snow. As we climbed through the dramatic vistas surrounding Sedona and continued on towards the canyon, we saw occasional deer nibbling at the bushes and the evergreens. And, for the better part of the day, we continued to drive, stopping along the way to snap pictures, grab meals and look at some of the Native American cliff dwellings that were announced by the road side signs.

We didn't get to the canyon itself until after night fell. As a result of good luck and traveling during the slowest season of the year, when we arrived there was one room left in the in the lodge on the rim of the canyon, and it wasn't just any room, it was a beautiful suite with two rooms, decorated in sturdy craftsman style, and opening on to a wide patio overlooking the canyon itself. In the darkness of the desert night, we couldn't see the canyon, but we could see an awe inspiring canopy of stars over head. As my parents prepared for sleep, I sat on the patio looking up at the sky until the chill of the evening persuaded me to return inside.

The next morning was just amazing. It turns out that the Grand Canyon is literally breathtaking in the daylight when you can see it. Looking from our balcony across to the opposite wall of the canyon, it was almost impossible to force ourselves inside long enough to get dressed and pack our suitcases.

We did manage to do so, though, and after breakfast, we spent the rest of the day walking along the footpaths, driving along the rim of the canyon and taking lots and lots of pictures.

As you might expect, when I returned to Los Angeles, all of those pictures, which I had hoped would capture the grandeur of looking over the canyon and which I had wanted to reproduce the feeling of the crisp, cold, Arizona wind blowing in my face, basically didn't do either. I wanted my pictures to express exactly what it is that is so grand about the Grand Canyon . Instead they were all pretty, if not awe inspiring, and interesting, if not arresting. The colors weren't as bright as in real life. The overwhelming scale of this wonder of the world was lost.

I think that trying to capture the Grand Canyon on film is an apt metaphor for the limits of human understanding. The challenge of capturing something in a photograph is the endeavor to translate something that exists in real life into an artificial frame in such a way that everything that ends up within that frame communicates the feeling and the experience of the photographer. The relationship between the subject and the rest of the frame, what's in the foreground and what's in the background, where the focal point falls and how much of the frame is filled, all of these things tell a story. But in order to tell that story, everything that is outside of the frame simply has to be discarded. The reason that it's so hard to take a picture of the Grand Canyon is because the sensation of being surrounded by such beauty on such a scale simply can't be contained within a single frame. You have to disregard so much of what's around you in order to focus on a single focal point that you end up with only a tiny fraction of the experience on film.

The enterprise of Judaism is sometimes like that. It helps us to compose our days and our lives within a structure that helps us to make sense of the world we in which we live and ultimately it helps us to gain an understanding of the nature of God. Our liturgy reminds us of our souls, our bodies, our relationships with each other, our relationships with the Jewish people and all of these are aspects of our relationship with God. The cycle of our holidays reminds us of our place in history and of the passing of the seasons in the natural world, and all of these, too, are aspects of our relationship with God. But, ultimately, just like trying to capture the Grand Canyon within a four by six inch photograph, the natures of God and of our relationship with God are simply too broad, too expansive, to complicated to be captured in any human medium.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, in an essay called, "Death as a Homecoming," writes about the paradox of human beings trying to comprehend and construct the "image of God." Rabbi Heschel explains that it is impossible for human beings to comprehend God, because the essence of our understanding of God is that God is wholly different in kind from human beings. He writes:

. . . the likeness of God means the likeness of Him who is unlike man. The likeness of God means the likeness of Him compared with who all else is like nothing.
Indeed, the words 'image and likeness of God' conceal more than they reveal. They signify something which we can neither comprehend nor reveal.

Nevertheless, if I were to go to the Grand Canyon tomorrow, I would probably take another five rolls of pictures trying to capture its beauty, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to understand the nature of God. It's human nature. And that's what the rabbis must have had in mind when they chose the Torah reading for this morning on our liturgical calendar.

This morning in the Torah, we read of an encounter between God and Moshe during the healing process after the construction and the subsequent destruction of the Golden Calf. This encounter is perhaps the best expression of our desire to know God in the entire Torah, and, at the same time, it is the quintessential example of hester panim, of the fact that God's face must, by the sheer nature of God's divinity remain hidden to us.

The reading this morning begins with the expression of Moshe's sincere desire to know God in the most immediate way. Moshe is tired. He is discouraged. He has climbed to the top of Mount Sinai , he has communicated directly with God, and he has brought down the Eseret HaDibrot, the Ten Commandments, only to find upon his return to the foot of the mountain that his people have constructed an idol of gold and have begun to pray to it. Our text begins with Moshe begging God for help, begging God not to be so distant and begging God to join him in a plainly literal way and to accompany the people of Israel on their journey. The abstract and figurative emanations of God are not sufficient for Moshe or for the Jewish people. Moshe wants God's immediate and tangible presence. Our text begins: (Insert Hebrew text)

Moses said to the Lord, "See, You say to me, 'Lead this people forward,' but You have not made known to me whom You will send with me. Further, You have said 'I have singled you out by name, and you have, indeed, gained my favor.' Now, [Moses says], if I have truly gained Your favor, pray let me know Your ways, that I may know You and continue in Your favor." . . . Unless You go in the lead, do not make us leave this place. For how shall it be known that your people have gained Your favor unless You go with us, so that we may be distinguished, Your people and I, from every people on the face of the earth? (Ex. 33:12-16)

I read this and I hear the human cry to know God. I hear the cry of every mourner who recites Kaddish and prays that God will make God's self known, and that God will lend support and that God will explain why loss has to happen. I hear the cry of every parent who prays for strength and guidance in raising children and in understanding and enduring the frustrations of parenthood and the long process of bringing his or her children to success, health and happiness in adulthood. I hear the distillation of all of our prayers for God's presence and God's support and God's love. And then I read God's answer.

And the Lord said to Moses, "I will . . . do this thing that you have asked: for you have truly gained My favor and I have singled you out by name." Moses, then, said, "Let me behold Your Presence!" And God answered, "I will make all My goodness pass before you, and I will proclaim before you the name Lord, and the grace that I grant and the compassion that I show. But," God said, "You cannot see My face, for man may not see Me and live." And the Lord said, "See, there is a place near Me. Station yourself on the rock and, as My Presence passes by, I will put you in a cleft of the rock and shield you with My hand until I have passed by. Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back, but My face must not be seen. (Ex. 33:17-23)

And again, this passage rings so true. I picture this scene taking place in a setting like the Grand Canyon . God parades God's magnificence before Moshe. God grants Moshe the knowledge of God's presence. Then God tucks Moshe into one of the myriad of crags in the rock face so that Moshe is unable to see God's face.

Think of those times when you have felt closest to God, whether they took place on the rim of the Grand Canyon , or under the chupah, or at the birth of a child. Remember the sense of holiness, of feeling full, and of knowing that God is present.

And yet, even at these moments, we cannot know all of God's greatness. As Heschel taught us and as God told Moses, we cannot encounter God face to face and we cannot comprehend the magnitude of God's divinity. That is the limitation of being human. And yet we keep trying. That is why we are here this morning. That is what we celebrate during the holiday of Passover. That is the enterprise of a holy life.

So, where does that leave us? What do we do when we comprehend both our human struggle to understand God and the fact that it is not possible to fully succeed? Once again, I turn back to the metaphor of trying to photograph the Grand Canyon . I wasn't able to capture the Canyon in a photograph, but that doesn't mean that it's impossible. Someone who is a better photographer than I am might be able to do it. Conceptually, I understand how it could be done. While it is impossible to capture the panoramic enormity of the canyon on a single photographic negative, it is not impossible to capture an aspect of that enormity. To choose a single dramatic rock outcropping or a single wind blown tree as the focal point of the picture and place it in the context of a backdrop of the reds and golds and the contours of the canyon wall behind it, and thus tell the story of what it feels like to stand there on the canyon rim.

Similarly, the rabbis have crafted today's liturgy to give us such a focal point. The tradition is that today, Shabbat Pesach, we read through Shir HaShirim, the Song of Songs. In the interests of time, we won't do so in the synagogue this morning, but I urge all of you to take some time when you go home and open your Tanakh and read through this beautiful book of love poetry. Out of this context, Shir HaShirim is another puzzle. The name of God does not appear anywhere in the book. In fact, when we read the opening words:

O, give me of the kisses of your mouth,
For your love is more delightful than wine,
Your salves yield a sweet fragrance. . .
Draw me after you, let us run!
The king has brought me to his chambers.
Let us delight and rejoice in your love,
Savoring it more than wine. . . . (Shir HaShirim, 1:1 -4)

It seems clear that the book is very much about the real, physical human love between one very earthly man and one very earthly woman. Nevertheless, as we read further we arrive at verses that seem to echo this morning's Torah reading, summoning and reframing the image of Moses' encounter with God. These verses begin:

O my dove, in the cranny of the rocks,
Hidden by the cliff,
Let me see your face,
Let me hear your voice;
For your voice is sweet
and your face is comely." (Shir HaShirim 2:14)

The message of the rabbis becomes clear. It is impossible to experience God's presence in its immensity. But it can be experienced by focusing on one aspect of the way that we experience it. The rabbis are telling us that, if we can chose the honest, romantic love between two individuals as our focal point, then we can begin to give structure to what it feels like to be in the presence of God. We can understand the longing to always be closer, to always be seeking and always be sought, we can understand unconditional love and trust and we can understand always wanting to be worthy of the relationship in order to make it the most beautiful and holy experience possible.

And this is the artistry of the rabbis, giving us access to something as overwhelming as the existence of God and expressing it in something as personal as the love between two people. I give thanks for God's presence. I give thanks for the wisdom of the rabbis, and I give thanks that my parents and I chose to go the Grand Canyon . This would have been a much harder sermon to write had we gone to Disney World instead.
I wish everyone a happy remainder of Passover and a Shabbat filled with peace and love.