Home: Yearning

Ps. 27:4

The mystic poets write about what it feels like to feel the pulse of the perennial on the path, not just the shrine. 

Perhaps the path, not the place, is our ultimate, and sometimes tragic,  desired destination? And yet we need, and yearn for shelter, temple, safety, home.

On a summer afternoon, several years ago, I was on a long bike ride when words from today’s psalm sang in my heart, with a familiar tune from my youth choir days:

אַחַ֤ת ׀ שָׁאַ֣לְתִּי מֵֽאֵת־יְהֹוָה֮ אוֹתהּ אֲבַ֫קֵּ֥שׁ שִׁבְתִּ֣י בְּבֵית־יְ֭הֹוָה כל־יְמֵ֣י חַיַּ֑י לַחֲז֥וֹת בְּנֹעַם־יְ֝הֹוָ֗ה וּלְבַקֵּ֥ר בְּהֵֽיכָלֽוֹ׃

Only this one thing I ask of GOD, only this do I seek: to dwell in GOD’s house all the days of my life, to gaze upon GOD’s beauty, to visit GOD’s temple.”

Ps. 27:4

The melody was beautiful, bringing back memories, but why did those words pop into my head at that time, I wondered, cycling on.  And as I sang them one by one, I got it. 

The poet’s request to ‘dwell’ in the divine home has multiple meanings, and the original Hebrew word in this verse is ‘v’shavti’ - which can also mean, literally, ‘to sit’. It is connected thematically to ‘Shiviti’  - the ancient art of meditative presence that was first presented in these Psalms.

Sitting firmly on my bike seat, pedaling through challenges, enjoying the summer breeze - there I was, content and present, sitting right where I wanted to - inside the sweaty beauty of it all.

Inside the temple, on wheels. 

Not the destination - the path. Sh’vti. Shiviti. 

Psalm 27 is well known because in Ashkenazi Jewish communities it’s recited daily during the 40 days that lead to Yom Kippur. It’s an atonement psalm about the pilgrim’s yearning for the sacred sense of belonging, and the remorse that comes with the annual process of repair and renewal, a hymn for the annual journey. It is an invitation, recited daily, to rediscover my seat at the table, my comfort zone, my speed.

But even as I gasped through this realization I also appreciated the fact that this athletic meditative was likely not the original intent.

Whoever wrote this psalm about temple longing likely meant marble and gold, smoke and songs - the love and longing for the actual Jerusalem hub, religious-social pilgrimage site - the Jewish soul home, now long gone. But not the longing and the yearning to belong.

Belonging was always the purpose of temples, and the religious rites conducted within their walls and beyond them. When this poet writes about the longing to sit within the temple - it is about both literal and metaphorical refuge. 

Prof.Shalom E. Holtz explores this tension:

“The generations of readers who have recited these psalms without the existence of a physical temple have naturally interpreted the refuge imagery metaphorically: just as descriptions of God as a refuge are not literal, so, too, dwelling in God’s house need not refer to being in a physical location.

At the time of the composition of the book of Psalms, however, the Temple was an actual place that served as the center of religious activities, and thus this image may have originally been meant literally.

..Seeking a permanent connection with their god, ancient Mesopotamians would place votive statues of themselves in front of their god. Psalm 27 represents the Israelite alternative: the spoken request to see YHWH face-to-face uses words, not statues, to give the petitioner a refuge with God that endures even after departing the Temple.”

We all long for refuge, sometimes literaly need to survive. We all need to belong, and to be protected.

Whether we’re on the road because we want to, or because we are forced to leave our homes, we have to find our footing.  That’s where this poetry is born. 

On this week and on this day, many in the world are marking, musing on, and mourning all meanings of home, homeland, yearning and loss of basic home security for so many innocents, everywhere.  

The Palestinian symbol of the key, representing exile and defiant longing, is held up on this Nakba Day.  The keys are at once symbolic and concrete - they once opened real doors to actual homes, some still standing. But they are also a metaphor for the wish of return. In recent months Keys to lost homes in Gaza have become similar symbols of grief and protest.

The keys are the longing for physical refuge and shelter - and they also open more inner gates, deep needs for soul shelter - within this cruel world. 

On this day, we wish for metaphors to nourish, for real homes to be rebuilt, for rubble to rise into newfound realities of healing sanctuaries, within and beyond. For all to come home, to have a home, a safe homeland, to feel at home in the world.

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