Shelter From The Storm
Erev Rosh Hashana, 5780
Rabbi Jason Rosenberg
“Peace unto you, and to your kingdom,
your majesty.”
Everywhere she went, people greeted
the queen with these words. “Peace unto you, and to your kingdom, your
majesty.” For her entire life, from the days before she even understood the
words, everyone who saw her would say the same thing. “Peace unto you, and to
your kingdom, your majesty.” Her advisors at court, foreign dignitaries, even
common people in the street, when she was out walking, taking in the sights of
the realm, people would sometimes wave, often smile, but always, always offer a
heartfelt, “Peace unto you, and to your kingdom, your majesty.”
It had been this way for
generations. This is how the king or queen was always greeted. What better
blessing, what fonder hope could there be? But, the truth was that this queen
had never truly known peace. Oh, of course there had been moments of peace.
But, true peace? Widespread peace? Enduring peace? No.
There was always some neighboring
nation which was rattling their sabers, or maybe starting a few skirmishes
along the border, just testing to see how strong the kingdom was. And, there
was always some province here or there which wasn't happy. Maybe they didn't
have enough food that season, or maybe they thought their taxes were too high
that year. The Queen was always having meetings with her advisors, discussing
how to shore up this defense, or quell that unrest.
It wasn't just with this queen, of
course. She read her histories, and she knew that each of her ancestors had
much the same story to tell. Some faced times of outright war or national disaster.
Some lived in more tranquil times, but none had ever known complete peace. There
hadn’t been a single day when there wasn’t a war, or a fight, or a struggle,
somewhere in the realm. Not ever.
The Queen was distressed. Everyone
in the kingdom professed to love peace, but they were talking about a fantasy,
a dream. How could you claim to love peace when you had never really seen it? Why
would you keep wishing peace on each other when it seemed that peace would
never come?
Was peace even possible, she
wondered? Could we even dream of a day when there would actually be full and
complete peace in the land? The more history she read, and the more she looked
at the world around her, the less the queen could conceive of it. She started
to realize that she didn’t even really know what peace meant. She couldn’t even
imagine what peace, true peace, would look like. She became obsessed with one,
singular goal—to have, at the very least, an image, a vision of peace. To know
what, exactly, she was striving for.
She asked her advisors to try to
help her—to show her, to imagine for her, what real peace would be. What the
world would look like if everyone was at peace. No one really could do it. The
queen started to despair—how can we pursue peace when there is always strife?
How can we pursue peace when we can’t even imagine what it really looks like?
Haunted by this notion, that she
didn’t even understand, couldn’t even fully imagine peace, the queen started
asking everyone, from all walks of life, to explain it. Teachers, scientists,
religious leaders—none of them could. They all said that they could, but
when pushed to actually come up with an answer...
The queen couldn’t sleep. The queen
couldn’t rest. She had been raised being taught that peace was the ultimate
good, that peace was the standard by which she’d be judged, that peace was what
was most needed in this world. But, now it seemed impossible. How could she
bring what she couldn’t even dream of?
So, desperate, she turned to the
artists. She announced a contest throughout the land—the man or woman who could
make a painting of peace, the person who could at least show, through art, what
peace might really look like, might actually feel like, would be given riches
behind her wildest dreams. There were no shortage of entries—every artist
wanted to take a shot at making this wonderful, sacred work. And, of course,
every artist wanted to take a shot at getting rich!
Artist after artist, painting after
painting, came through the queen’s court. “Peace unto you, and to your kingdom,
your majesty,” they’d say as they showed off their creations. Oh, they were
beautiful. The most vivid, lush, pastoral scenes, rendered with the finest
skill. Rolling landscapes, covered in wildflowers, colors practically jumping
off the canvas. Skies so blue they would bring a tear to a grown woman’s eye.
Children, in many of them, playing, frolicking, laughing, as their parents
beamed from afar. One had a musician, sitting on a rock, offering lullabies to
lions and lambs, laying down together. Birds in silent, graceful flight. Sun
drenched hammocks. Rolling, bubbling streams. Trees bearing fruit big enough to
feed a world. Each painting more stunning than the last, but each one not quite
right. Each one looked like an unattainable fantasy world, and so each one made
the queen feel even more sure that, in the real world, we’re doomed to
live without true peace.
Then, when the queen was ready to
give up hope, in walked an old lady. Wizened, stooped and frail. In her hand
was a canvas covered in gray upon gray. “Peace unto you, and to your kingdom,
your majesty,” as she revealed a painting unlike any the queen had yet seen. It
was a painting of a storm-tossed shore. A moon was barely visible, covered as
it was by the thick, gray storm clouds. Rain poured down, and wind churned up
the sea into an angry assault on the shore. Waves raged and crashed into the
cliffs, which almost seemed to shiver from the cold. There was steely misery in
every inch of that painting.
Except, for one spot. In the corner,
tucked away, there was a warm glow of light. As the queen looked, she saw in
that corner, wedged into a crevice in the cliff wall, a small cave, probably
dug out by the force of the endless onslaught of tide. And, in that cave, a
small fire. Huddled around the fire was a woman, cradling her baby. Their back
to the sea, the baby saw only the warm flames, and the mother saw only the face
of her darling babe, eyes lit up from the fire reflecting in them. Together,
shielded and protected, they looked content. At peace.
“Your majesty,” the old woman
offered. “Peace is not found in a perfect world, for such a world has never existed,
and it never will. There is always a storm raging, just outside our door.
Peace, my queen, will only be found in a shelter from the storm.”
“Peace unto you, my teacher,” said
the queen. “Peace unto us all, as we take shelter from the storm.”
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