Finding Our Footing

One of the most beautiful and remarkable aspects of our tradition is its layering and intertextuality. Each generation receives what came before and builds on it. The multiple layers of Jewish culture and Jewish text are in constant dialogue and conversation with one another. Earlier texts, traditions, and narratives are referenced and reshaped to generate new meanings.

For example, the rabbis of the Talmud took biblical quotes and wove them into the blessings we recite each morning. Many of these Birkhot Hashahar draw directly from the psalms; each one transforms a verse of ancient poetry into a moment of daily awareness and gratitude.

The rabbis conceived of these blessings not as a block of text to be recited in the synagogue, but as a series of whispered thank-yous that accompany the earliest motions of a person’s waking up. When the rooster crows, one blesses the God “who enables the rooster to distinguish day from night.” On opening the eyes: “who gives sight to the blind.” On sitting up in bed: “who frees the captive.” On getting dressed: “who clothes the naked,” and so on. Step by step, action by action, the rabbis ask us to inhabit the morning slowly, to notice the ordinary miracles we usually overlook and take for granted.

Among them is a blessing that appears almost mundane, yet carries a depth I have been thinking about this week: רוֹקַע הָאָֽרֶץ עַל הַמָּֽיִם — “Blessed is the One who stretches out the earth over the waters.” According to the Talmud, one recites it at the moment of placing one’s feet on the ground after rising from bed, offering thanks for the Creator’s gift of solid earth beneath us.

At first glance, the blessing seems to recall the opening chapter of Genesis: God creating dry land atop the primordial waters. But the tradition insists on something much more immediate. The verb roka is in the present tense. As one commentator writes: “The meaning is not that, at the beginning of Creation, God spread the earth over the waters in a single act that endures forever. Rather, at every moment God is spreading out the earth over the waters. Moreover, this act of creation is not carried out in a single action nor in the same manner for all creatures.  God is spreading out the earth at every moment, uniquely for every human being.” (Rabbi Nosson Tzvi Finkel, Or Hatzafun)

In other words: the ground beneath us is a gift renewed constantly, moment by moment, for each one of us; stability is something we experience, not something we possess. And we give thanks not only for the literal firm ground that supports us, but for the foundations—spiritual, moral, emotional, communal–that allow us to walk through our days without fear of falling.

Most of us know that feeling of suddenly realizing that what once felt solid has begun to shift. These months have reminded us how unsteady and unreliable the ground can be. Since last year’s election and the administration that took office in January, many of us have felt that the foundations of democracy, once taken for granted, are no longer firm. We have watched with grief and outrage as vulnerable people across this country suffer the consequences of unjust policies, families torn apart by deportations, rights eroded, hateful and violent rhetoric, shameless corruption. What we assumed was unshakable in America turns out to be far from secure.

Here in New York City, while some are hopeful about the possibilities the incoming mayor brings, others are anxious and concerned. Their sense of vulnerability is heightened: Will we retain a sense of safety and continue to feel at home? Will the new policies and priorities strengthen the foundations we depend on, or shake them further?

In Israel, too, the ground has trembled. Since October 7, and throughout the devastating war that followed, both Israelis and Palestinians have lived—and continue to live—with profound uncertainty. The human toll and the profound ethical challenges of this period have left deep fissures, the ground feels unsteady, and the path forward remains unclear.

And for so many of us, beyond politics and nations, the foundations of our own lives often feel unstable: losses we were not prepared for, challenging transitions, changes in health, in work, in relationships. The ground beneath us moves in many ways.

Our BJ community, too, is now entering a season of transition. The completion of my 40 years of service as rabbi at BJ is approaching, and this Shabbat we are honored to welcome Rabbi Alex Braver, the lead finalist in our rabbinic search process. For many, this makes the transition feel more real. Change, even anticipated change, is delicate. We long for stability, for the familiar, for the landscape we know. It is important that we remind ourselves that as one door closes, a new door opens—the future is filled with promise, excitement, and the opportunity to unfold the BJ spirit into our third century and continue to build something truly great together.

So what do we do when the ground beneath us feels less certain?

Perhaps the blessing itself offers us guidance. We place our feet on the floor, and we remember: The ground is steady not because it is unchanging, but because it is upheld– continuously, lovingly, even miraculously, by our resilience, by the support and the strength of community, by the power of our prayer and our rituals, by our commitment to keep searching and striving. In spite of everything, there is a foundation holding us.

This Shabbat, I invite us all to feel the quiet reassurance of that daily blessing: Blessed is the One who spreads out the earth over the waters.  Please remember these things: We are not navigating shifting ground alone; God is still at work and holds us in the challenging realities and the transitions of our lives, and together we will face whatever changes come, with resilience, with courage, and with hope.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Roly Matalon