Like rain upon the grass

Like rain upon the grass

A few weeks ago I told about the loop we walk near home around midday, usually somewhere between twelve and one. We live among much farmland, and whoever keeps walking that same loop through the year sees the fields change constantly: first the ploughing, then the sowing, then the first green comes up, and later a full crop suddenly stands there. At Ki Teitzei I thought of Yeshua’s parable of the sower and the soil. But this week Moses brought me back to those same fields — only in Ha’azinu it is not first of all about the soil and the seed. It is about the rain.

For there is a great deal a farmer can do. He can plough, sow, fertilise, fight the weeds, prepare everything as well as he can. But there remains something he cannot make himself: rain. He cannot command the sky to open at the right moment. And it is precisely with that image that Moses begins his last great song:

“My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew, as the small rain upon the tender herb, and as the showers upon the grass.” — Deuteronomy 32:2

God’s Word comes like rain — not because the earth produced it, but because it comes down to her. And at the same time rain is not without effect. Where rain falls on a field, something happens: what lay hidden can grow, the land changes, fruit comes. Perhaps that is a fine link with the past weeks. At Yom Teruah the trumpet sounded and I asked: are we still listening? And now this parashah begins with one word — Ha’azinu. Give ear. Listen. As though the shofar has now fallen silent and God asks: you heard the sound — but are you truly listening to what I say?

Heaven and earth must listen

Moses begins his song in a striking way: “Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak; and hear, O earth, the words of my mouth.” He addresses not only Israel; he calls heaven and earth as witnesses. That fits the preceding chapters. Moses knows he is going to die, and he knows Israel will later turn aside. That is why the song had to be learned and passed on, so that it could later testify against the people. A spoken sermon can be forgotten; a song often stays much longer. We know this ourselves: an explanation from yesterday you can barely retell, while a song from twenty or thirty years ago comes back completely the moment the first words sound.

So God gives Israel not only information. He gives them a song — in which their whole history is gathered: who God is, where Israel came from, what God did for them, how the people could forget Him, what the consequences are, and how God still upholds His Name and His covenant faithfulness. The song must travel on, from generation to generation.

Begin with the Rock

And before Moses names a single sin of Israel, he first says who God is:

“He is the Rock, his work is perfect: for all his ways are judgment: a God of truth and without iniquity, just and right is he.” — Deuteronomy 32:4

That matters. When we examine ourselves, we very easily begin with ourselves: what went wrong, where did I fall short, where must I change? But Moses does not begin there. He begins with God. The Rock. That is the reference point. When everything moves, He stands. When we change, He stays faithful. When our experience grows confusing, God’s character is not reinvented by our circumstances. And that is exactly what makes the next words confronting: God is faithful, but His children have dealt corruptly; God is right, but the people can go crooked. The question then is not: has the Rock changed? The question is: where have we moved away from the Rock? That is a very different kind of self-examination. Teshuvah does not begin with endlessly analysing yourself; teshuvah begins with looking again at the One from whom you strayed.

Ask your father, ask the elders

Moses continues: “Remember the days of old, consider the years of many generations: ask thy father, and he will shew thee; thy elders, and they will tell thee.” Faith is not only looking ahead; it is also learning to remember. That already returned at Yom Teruah: God remembers. But now Israel itself is called to remember. Recall where you come from, what God has done; ask those who lived before you. For every generation easily thinks its circumstances are unique and that everything begins with it. But we are not the first to try to follow God, not the first generation to wrestle with fear, abundance, children, parenting, money, power, doubt and obedience. There is a history behind us, and in it we see both God’s faithfulness and human failure.

That is why what we pass on to our children matters: not only rules, but stories. Telling how God helped; telling where we ourselves went wrong; telling why certain choices became important. Not to make their lives run exactly like ours, but to leave a testimony. Ask your father. Ask the elders. There must be something to tell.

He found him in the wilderness

Then Moses describes how God found Israel: “He found him in a desert land, and in the waste howling wilderness; he led him about, he instructed him, he kept him as the apple of his eye.” And the image becomes that of an eagle: “As an eagle stirreth up her nest, fluttereth over her young, spreadeth abroad her wings, taketh them, beareth them on her wings.” This is a very different kind of leadership than grasping. God does not shape Israel by letting it sit safely in the nest. The eagle stirs up the nest — the same God who protects also brings movement. The young must learn to fly. But they are not pushed out and left to themselves; the eagle hovers beneath. The risk is real, and so is the nearness.

That is a beautiful picture of spiritual growth. We would sometimes most like God to make our life so safe that nothing moves any more: no uncertainty, no hard choices, no moments where we must trust. But then we might never learn to fly. God’s care does not always mean the nest stays still; sometimes His care shows precisely in teaching us to trust while the nest moves. And then it says: “So the LORD alone did lead him, and there was no strange god with him.” That is the heart. Not: Israel was strong. Not: Israel had the best strategy. But: God led.

When blessing becomes a danger

And then comes one of the most piercing movements of the whole song. God brings Israel to a good place; the people receive abundance — honey, oil, milk, fat, grain, wine. And then: “Jeshurun waxed fat, and kicked.” That is sharp. The greatest danger turns out not to be only the wilderness; abundance too can become dangerous, perhaps even more so. In the wilderness you know you are dependent: no water — God must give; no food — God must give; surrounded — God must protect. But what happens when your fridge is full, your money is in the account, your house is solid, your planning holds and you can reasonably solve your own problems? Then receiving can slowly turn into possessing. We begin to live as though what was given to us is simply ours.

And precisely there Moses says: “He forsook God which made him, and lightly esteemed the Rock of his salvation.” And a few verses later: “Of the Rock that begat thee thou art unmindful, and hast forgotten God that formed thee.” That is striking language. God is called not only Rock here, but also the One who begets and gives birth — Israel’s origin lies with Him. And that is exactly what is forgotten. Perhaps that is why forgetting in the Bible is often far more serious than no longer being able to recall. It is beginning to live as though the Giver is no longer needed.

New gods

Moses says Israel will serve strange gods: “new gods that came newly up, whom your fathers feared not.” That little phrase is very current. We need not picture only images of stone. A god is, in the end, also whatever we expect to carry us, save us, give us identity or guarantee our security. And every generation makes new versions: money, technology, health, political power, our own intelligence, our theology, a church structure, our achievements. Even our way of keeping Torah can be used so that we no longer trust in God, but in the fact that we do it better than someone else. Then something good has changed into something that takes the Giver’s place. That is idolatry in its most treacherous form: not openly rejecting God, but making Him practically unnecessary.

God hides His face

The song then turns dark. God says: “I will hide my face from them, I will see what their end shall be.” That is heavy language, and we must not read over it. Deuteronomy does not pretend that choices have no consequences; when Israel leaves the Source and gives itself to other gods, real judgment comes — enemies, hunger, violence, scattering. But even in that judgment a remarkable tension remains. God says He could wipe Israel out, but that He takes account of what the enemies would say: that their power destroyed Israel. In other words: even when God judges His people, His Name stays bound to this people. His judgment is no proof that He has forgotten His covenant. Even His judgment stands within His faithfulness to who He is.

If only they were wise

In the middle of the song stands: “O that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end!” That is a very simple definition of wisdom. Not only knowing what is pleasant today, but seeing where a road leads. We make many decisions because they solve something today: today it gives rest, today it avoids conflict, today it brings advantage, today it feels good. But wisdom asks: where does this road finally bring me? That is also a fine question for the days of teshuvah. Not only: what have I done? But: where am I heading? If I go on in this direction for five years, where do I end up — in my marriage, in how I deal with my children, in my attitude toward God, in my heart? Teshuvah means I do not have to wait until I stand at the end of the wrong road. I may turn around now.

There is none other

And then, amid all those warnings, God speaks: “See now that I, even I, am he, and there is no god with me: I kill, and I make alive; I wound, and I heal: neither is there any that can deliver out of my hand.” That is perhaps the most absolute statement of this parashah. God pulls away every false security. Assyria cannot save. Horses cannot save. Idols cannot save. Our hands cannot make a god that then truly carries us. He alone is God. And precisely there the haftarah of Shabbat Shuvah begins to answer Ha’azinu almost directly.

Return, O Israel

Hosea says: “O Israel, return unto the LORD thy God; for thou hast fallen by thine iniquity.” We know that word by now: shuv. To return. And Hosea says something very practical: “Take with you words, and turn to the LORD.” Not: wait until your feeling is perfect. Not: make sure you have first restored yourself. Take words with you. Speak. Confess. Say what is true. And Hosea even puts the words in Israel’s mouth: Assyria shall not save us, we will not ride upon horses, and we will no longer say to the work of our hands: “our gods.” Do you see how closely that fits Ha’azinu? Moses warned of new gods and of forgetting the Rock; Hosea lets us hear how teshuvah sounds: I stop calling my saviour what cannot save me. That is repentance — not only saying “I am sorry,” but naming again where my trust belongs.

I will heal their backsliding

And then God answers in Hosea: “I will heal their backsliding, I will love them freely.” There again comes God’s initiative. Israel returns, takes words, confesses — but in the end God heals. He even says: “I will be as the dew unto Israel.” And suddenly we are back at the first lines of Ha’azinu. Moses said: my word shall come down as dew. And Hosea says, in God’s name: I will be as the dew. I do not want to pretend Hosea here deliberately gives a technical exposition of Deuteronomy 32 — the text does not say that. But canonically it is a beautiful image: the Word comes down as dew, and the God to whom Israel returns says Himself: I will be dew to you. He does not come only with an order to restore; He becomes the Source of the restoration. And Hosea again uses plant images: Israel will blossom, take root, put out branches, bear fruit. Where does that fruit come from? “From me is thy fruit found.” Teshuvah does not bring us back to a place where we must then produce fruit on our own. Teshuvah brings us back to the Source of the fruit.

Rend your heart, not your garments

In the Ashkenazi reading this haftarah is joined by Joel 2, and Joel sharpens the call still more: “Turn ye even to me with all your heart,” and then: “Rend your heart, and not your garments.” That is a necessary warning, precisely in a season with much emphasis on fasting, prayer, gestures and special days. Form matters — we spoke of that at Yom Teruah; the shofar is not arbitrary, the form can carry the message. But form can also become empty. You can fast without returning, weep without letting anything go, hear a shofar without truly listening, even confess guilt while clinging to what God says must go. That is why Joel says: not only the garment — the heart. God seeks no theatre; He seeks truth in the hidden place. And there too Joel does not end at human achievement. Why must they return? “For he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness.” Teshuvah finally rests on God’s character. We do not return to a God who reluctantly grants one more chance; we return because He is gracious.

Blow the shofar again

And then something striking happens. Joel says: “Blow the trumpet in Zion, sanctify a fast, call a solemn assembly.” We have just had Yom Teruah; we have heard the shofar. And now, in the days toward Yom Kippur, it sounds again in the prophetic text — but now very concretely: gather the people, the elders, the children, even the nursing infants, the bridegroom and the bride. Everyone. There is no category that can say: this does not concern me. That looks much like what we keep seeing these past parashot: the covenant is never lived only individually. Teshuvah has a personal side, but also a communal one. How do we live as families? As a congregation? What do we pass on? Which patterns must change not only in my own heart, but also in our shared culture?

What happens after the sound

And so I come back to Yom Teruah. A few days ago the sound itself was the image: the shofar interrupted, waking up, listening. But perhaps Ha’azinu is exactly the right parashah to read after it. For you can be startled awake by an alarm and five minutes later simply go on with what you were doing. The real difference shows afterward: what do you do with what you have heard? Ha’azinu says: listen. Hosea says: return. Joel says: rend your heart. These are not three different messages; they belong together. Hearing without returning stays information. Returning without truly listening can become a self-chosen religious project. But when we hear who God is, see again where we have moved away, and then turn to Him, teshuvah is born.

He who has been forgiven much

And here I want to set the gospel beside Ha’azinu, as a confessional horizon — without pretending it replaces the peshat of Deuteronomy 32. Yeshua tells of a servant who owes an immeasurable debt: ten thousand talents, a sum a man could never repay. And his lord forgives him everything. Everything. But the moment he is outside, that same man seizes a fellow servant by the throat who owes him a pittance, and has him thrown into prison. What has happened to him? He has forgotten from whom he received everything. Do you hear the echo of Ha’azinu? Jeshurun waxed fat and forgot the Rock that begat him. The forgiven servant grows hard and forgets the hand that set him free. Forgetting, in both, is no matter of memory — it is beginning to live as though the Giver does not matter.

And so this gospel says something Ha’azinu also says, but from the other side. Ha’azinu asks: remember from whom you received it. Matthew 18 shows where that remembering — or that forgetting — becomes visible: in how you treat the other. For whoever truly grasps how much has been forgiven him cannot take his brother by the throat. And whoever does take his brother by the throat shows that the sense of his own forgiveness has drained away. “From me is thy fruit found,” said Hosea. The fruit of received grace is grace passed on. Teshuvah is therefore not only that I return to the Rock; it is that, having returned, I treat the other as one who, like me, lives from forgiveness. Peter asked: how often must I forgive — seven times? And Yeshua said: not seven times, but seventy times seven. That is no new counting; it is the end of counting — as the Rock stops counting against the one who returns.

No empty word

Almost at the end Moses says: “Set your hearts unto all the words… for it is not a vain thing for you; because it is your life.” No empty word. That touches me. For we can grow so familiar with the Bible that words begin to sound empty. We know the texts, the stories; we recognise the sentences before anyone finishes them. But familiarity is not the same as life. You can know the Word and yet forget the Rock — that is exactly what Ha’azinu shows. Israel knew God, had seen His deeds, and could still forget. So the question is not only: have I heard this before? The question is: is this Word still living for me? Can it still correct me? Can it still interrupt me? Can it point out something I would rather not see? Can it still call me back?

Even Moses stands under the Word

And then the parashah ends movingly. God tells Moses to go up Mount Nebo. He will see the land, but not enter it — because of what happened at Meribah, where Moses and Aaron did not sanctify God before Israel. That is a telling ending. Moses has just sung a song warning Israel. But Moses does not stand above the Word. The man who gives the teaching is judged by that same Word. And that is exactly what makes his song trustworthy: he sings not as one who stands outside it, but as one who falls under it himself. That is the most honest place to speak from — not above the hearer, but beside him, under the same Rock.

Closing

So Ha’azinu stands between the trumpet and the Day of Atonement as a song that lingers. It begins with rain that comes down because heaven gives, not because the earth made it; and it ends at a Word that is no empty word but life. Between them lies the warning we all need: that we can know the Word and forget the Rock, that abundance hardens the heart more than the wilderness did, and that forgetting from whom we received everything becomes visible in how we treat the other. But the Rock has not changed. He kills and makes alive, He wounds and heals, He says: from Me is your fruit found. So listen. Return. Rend your heart. And let the grace you received open the hand you stretch out to your brother. For this is no empty word. It is your life.