How do we remain faithful when boredom sets in? Sages offer numerous rules of piety, precepts, commandments, vows, proverbs, and aphorisms, all compiled after revelations that shattered the structure of existence. The purpose of all rules of piety is to extend revelation into ordinary life. They are survival tactics that help us withstand tedium, our disappointed expectations that something dramatic will happen—the sky open, a pillar of fire light our way—if we do this and that. For example, if we stand in a field in the month of Elul when the red dwarf rises above the tree where the shepherd has tethered his goats, we’ll see divine light. Instead, we are preoccupied with stamping our feet in the cold, with muttering and gossiping with friends. Without
knowing it, we’re storing a memory of being knit together that will help us survive later. One friend rolls her eyes in mock disapproval at such religiosity; another concentrates as hard as she can on what the sages said would happen if we gathered in the fields during the month of Elul. She focuses on waiting to see a flash. A second friend observes what can be seen, the night sky, its billions of unnamed stars, impossible to count, immeasurable depth, formless space, black, blank; receding as we are, less and less visible, less and less impatient at nothing much happening. Then another shouts, witnessing the birth of a star.
Cantillations by Emily Warn From Shadow Architect
