The Season of Elul!!!! Why Do We Read Psalms 27?

Psalms 27


THE KING IN THE FIELD: The Season of Elul!!!! Why Do We Read Psalms 27?


Psalm 27 in its entirety focus verse 1
The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?

The Psalm To Read Before Rosh Hashanah
Elul is the month of preparation and shofar blowing. The name of the month has been understood to be an acronym for the Hebrew verse “I am my Beloved’s and my Beloved is mine.” During Elul we read Psalm 27, “To David – the Lord is my light,” twice daily. This practice is relatively new, evidently some 200 years old. But it is a wise practice, even essential.

The first half of the psalm bespeaks assurance. The psalmist, while describing the enemy from a distance (from whom will I be afraid), approaching (as evil men come near), preparing (should an army besiege me), and attacking (should war come against me), nevertheless is calm, above all danger, sacrificing and thanking the Lord. The opening structure reflects both the growing threat and its total disappearance. The first three verses increase numerically: two parallel phrases of five words each, then six, then seven (that number hinting at completion). There follows the central word of the psalm, One. Facing all these threats, the psalmist feels the peace of unity, and throughout this first half the reader senses no doubt, no real threat.

How strange it is that the second half of the psalm depicts a world so totally opposite. (Many scholars even conclude that these are separate psalms!) Here we find a desperate search, a constant request, a pleading before the Holy One (“do not hide Your face … do not thrust [me] aside … do not forsake me, do not abandon me”). The author is abandoned by parents and surrounded by enemies. At the apex of this section, the psalmist cries out in agony, with a sentence he cannot finish, for it depicts the worst of all: Had I not the assurance that I would enjoy the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living …. His faith is his sole remaining thread connecting him to the land of the living. If he did not have this faith, then.

But the two psalms are indeed one. Hebrew roots carefully repeated in the two halves testify to unity, as does the clear inclusion: the name of God opens and closes the first half (The Lord is my light … a hymn to the Lord) and the second (Hear O Lord … look to the Lord).

The psalm demands oneness, reflecting an integration of most difficult circumstances together with security. The psalmist is model, puzzle, and challenge to us, for he did not hide from life’s troubles on one hand, and yet lives within a framework of faith on the other. Reciting this psalm demands that twice a day we struggle with ourselves and our faith, in expectation that we will arrive at the Days of Awe ready for repentance, ready to celebrate on the holiday with a full heart before the Lord.

In Elul, we renew our faith through search, as is also reflected in the modern midrash on this psalm, “One have I demanded of the Lord, that I shall seek: I seek only that forever I will demand the one, demand the oneness, demand the unity, from the Lord.”

Be Strong, Be Trusting: Reading Psalm 27 in Elul
There is a ritual this time of year that takes a bit more than 50 days. We have been reading a particular psalm that is not otherwise part of the siddur—Psalm 27—every morning and every night through the month of Elul, and we will continue this until Simhat Torah. Through our daily reading of Psalm 27—so like the daily counting of the Omer—we make this autumnal period, with its linear narrative of atonement, redemption, and the renewal of Torah, into a second version of the vernal Pesah-Shavuot narrative and give each year not one, but two special, sacred Sevenths.
There is no right or wrong way, only more or less interesting ways of understanding Psalm 27 or any other deep text. For example, in the eyes of the Anchor Bible, a work of serious scholarship from another tradition, this psalm’s roots lie in earlier texts in other Semitic languages, and they show that it is entirely about the Afterlife, but that’s not what I see. In sharing my interpretations here I intend only to share my way of experiencing these Holy Days. How then do I read Psalm 27? Let’s take a look.
It is—first but not foremost—beautiful poetry. Having even a little Hebrew helps a lot, because the poetry that lies in the sounds, their resonance and dissonances, gets lost in translation. I’ll transliterate the Hebrew where necessary; otherwise I’ll refer to this translation from the Jewish Publication Society’s 1999 Tanakh.
David was a King of many voices and moods. I read this entire psalm as a stream of thought in David’s head, not as a spoken or written text, until the last line, 14, where I see and hear a vocal outburst that summarizes the whole psalm. To my eye the psalm breaks into five silent stanzas before then, each with its own emotional tone: lines 1-3, 4-6, 7-10, 11-12, and 13. The stanzas get shorter as the poet’s introspective mood gets at once more agitated and elevated, so that when the last line comes, an astonishing optimism breaks through the dark cloud of David’s self-doubt.
In the silent, inner cycle that oscillates between the intensity of personal prayer and the relief of communal worship, Psalm 27 falls completely on the side of the personal; it is profoundly moving, even disturbing, in its ability to convey an inner voice in intimate communication with Adonai. Certainly it is the right time for us to be given this chance to hear David as he struggles. It is a daily reminder of this obligation we are all under, this time of year, to get past our cleverness and confess our hidden thoughts and secret actions to Adonai. As Moshe says in Parashat Ki Tavo [Devarim 29:28], “Ha’nistarot La’Adonai Eloheikhem / Concealed acts concern the Lord our God.” Like confession at any other time of year, fully feeling the meaning of this psalm, while theoretically possible at another time, might just be too painful outside of this special seventh of the year.
1-3
Here David is someone trying to convince himself of something he wishes he could believe. The very first words, the beginning of line 1, set a high standard for density and depth, even for a psalm of David: “Adonai ori veyish’i, mimi eera? / Adonai is my light and my salvation, whom should I fear?” Ori/eera; light/fear: it is a great example of the distinctions we are supposed to seek, and the words look and sound enough alike to make each illuminate the other. But then, in line 2, the fear breaks through: “When evil men assail me to devour my flesh / ’l’ekhol et-b’sarai’ ” … they will stumble and fall.” Devour my flesh? Maybe a hyperbole, maybe not; in any event, line 3 concludes that even so, “B’zot ani boteah / In this I would still trust,” that is, that David would trust in Adonai’s salvation, no matter what.
4-6
Here David daydreams: He will live in the house of the Lord, Adonai will shelter him, raise him high. All will be well, better than well: “V’ata yarum roshi al oi’vai s’vivotai/now my head is held high over my enemies surrounding me.” How then will David rejoice? With “sacrifice in Adonai’s tent with shouts of joy / V’ezbakha b’ahalo ziv’khai t’ruah,” and with singing and chanting a hymn to Adonai. Three possessive words now snap into sharp focus: “B’sarai; S’vivotai; Ziv’khai / my flesh; surrounding me; my sacrifice.” S’vivotai is the critical link: In Vayikra 1:11, intended to be read every morning at prayer even today, we repeat that the Kohanim were to take the blood of the animal sacrificed at the Temple in Jerusalem and dash it “upon the Altar, all around / Damo al ha’mizbeah saviv.” The daydream teeters on the edge of a nightmare: Is David dreaming of being the sacrificer, or the sacrifice?
7-10
Another jump in the narrative. Away with the daydream, back to the reality: David calls to Adonai and cries that he is not sure his call is heard. And who of us does not know that feeling? Here the words in English and in Hebrew convey panic and fright with blunt force: “Do not forsake me, do not abandon me, do not hide your face from me;” nothing subtle here, nor particularly poetical. The worst fear breaks through in line 10: “Ki avi v’imi azvuni, va’Adonai ya’asfeni / though my father and mother abandon me, Adonai will take me in.” Given the previous two lines, do we really think David is certain of this? I am told by good friends that the root of ya’asfeni is to receive in order to guide or teach, and that the line should be read as saying that even if I am so rotten that my parents give up on me, Adonai will find a way for me to become a good person. I wish I could feel the force of that interpretation, but that is not the effect this line has on me. As I am an orphan, the simpler meaning overwhelms me.
11-12
David pulls himself together and tries to focus on difficulties at hand. False accusers surround him, and his head is not at all held high above them; he needs a way out and asks Adonai to show him that path, past his watchful foes. These two lines are reasonable, practical, and altogether different from anything that has come before. It is as if David has snapped to attention, seen that time is short, and gotten to the point. But, there is no answer!
13
The strain of Adonai’s silence is too much; back to the daydream: “had I not the assurance that I would enjoy the goodness of Adonai in the land of the living … / Lulei he’emanutai lir-ot b’tuv-Adonai b’eretz Kha’yim… .” In the Hebrew, Lulei is surrounded by the sort of dots that mark of a word troublesome to the keepers of this text a thousand years ago, and rightly so; this is a wholly ambiguous line. The Anchor Bible translates Lulei as “The Victor,” based on linguistic overlaps with other cultures, but to me this line is simply David in a voice of great anxiety. What, for instance, are we to make of “b’eretz Kha’yim / the land of the living?” Is that this world, the world to come, or—as the Artscroll commentary concludes—the land of Israel? David is as broken as this line is broken; he is not sure that he is going to survive this moment.
14
The mood shifts again, dramatically: David will not give up and die. He remembers the b’rit between Adonai and his—and our—ancestors and knows he will prevail. Here comes the most powerful line in the psalm and perhaps the most dense line I have ever come across, anywhere. “Kavey el-Adonai, Khazak v’ya’ameitz libeha, v’kavey el-Adonai. / hope in Adonai, make yourself strong and give your heart courage, and hope in Adonai.” This line is all by itself a cycle, the tightest of the cycles I have come across in our ritual, the cycle that is the b’rit. From the very beginning of the Book of Joshua, Adonai tells Joshua “Khazak v’ ematz / be strong and resolute” many times, and of course Joshua is, and so we are alive today as Jews. But do we really think that this strength is what won the day for Joshua, or for us?
Psalm 27 teaches us, instead, what the entire narrative of these days—from Selihot through Simhat Torah—teaches us: that as Jews we are to hope in Adonai; and then we are to do everything we can to strengthen ourselves as if we were wholly left to our own fates; and then we are to continue to hope in Adonai despite having acted as if we were wholly on our own. That’s all we can do for our side of the b’rit; Adonai will respond to us in ways neither David, nor I, nor you, can know, nor need to know.

The general premise is that we recite it as long as we are being judged for the new year. Thus, some have the custom to say it until Yom Kippur (the day when Moses secured complete forgiveness). However, others continue until Shemini Atzeret (or Simchat Torah). The Chabad custom is to recite it until Hoshanah Rabbah, since that is when the judgment is “sealed.”

Since the customs are numerous, each individual and community should embrace their unique traditions, in the sincere hope that we all be inscribed and sealed for a sweet new year!

Shema Selah let us seek and consider our thoughts and ways during the month of Elul leading up to Yom Kippur!!