As Jewish clergy living and working in Texas, I’ve often been asked the question (mostly by my non-Jewish colleagues) about what “called me” to my work.
“Being called” is not an expression, in my experience, that is used often in Jewish spaces. It implies receiving a message from a higher power — an experience that, so far, has eluded me. I envy those who hear that call so loudly and clearly that there is no uncertainty about where their lives will take them. So in response I tend to say, “I don’t consider myself as having been called. It’s been more like a slow, steady, evolving nudge.”
Although Moses’ call from God in Parshat Shemot is clear, he still needs quite a bit of nudging before he accepts it. Raised as royalty in Egypt, he flees to Midian and begins a new and quiet life as a family man and shepherd. Tending to his flock one day, he makes the intentional decision to stop long enough to observe that a burning thornbush is not consumed: “I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn’t the bush burn up?” (Exodus 3:3)
Find more commentaries on Shemot.
It’s interesting that what draws Moses’ attention is not that the bush is burning, but that it is not burning up. Why does he seem to have no fear that this fire will spread and engulf his herd, himself, and the wilderness around him? Were burning bushes considered to be fairly harmless and commonly left alone to smolder into ash? If so, Moses might have passed this bush daily, until it became so familiar that he stopped noticing it altogether. Until the day when he was moved to actually stop and observe that, after so much time — perhaps every day since his Israelite siblings first cried out to God to rescue them — it was still intact, aflame but not engulfed. Burning until someone stopped and took notice. And this simple act of noticing, this curiosity, changes Moses’ destiny.
Moses’ question prompts God to communicate directly with him, charging him, “Come, therefore, I will send you to Pharoah, and you shall free My people, the Israelites, from Egypt.” (Exodus 3:10) Although God clearly sees Moses’ leadership potential, Moses is riddled with insecurity, pleading, “Please, send someone else!” (Exodus 4:13)
It’s interesting that Moses’ successor, Joshua, responds very differently when God calls him to lead the people into the Land after the death of Moses. When God commands Joshua to “be strong and resolute; do not be terrified or dismayed…” (Joshua 1:9) there is no hesitation. Joshua immediately tells the people to get ready to cross the Jordan. He’s got a job to do, he recognizes it, and he jumps right in.
Find more commentaries on LGBTQ+ Rights.
My spouse and I have lived in Texas for over 30 years. When we moved here, I was focused on raising three kids all under the age of six, and then I was studying to become a cantor and beginning my synagogue career. I knew that I was living in a red state — there were certainly enough red flags popping up through the years. But it literally took a pandemic for me to stop and notice not just a burning bush but an entire forest fire.
Sequestered at home with more time on my hands, unable to visit my now-adult kids (none of whom live in Texas), I began paying attention to what was happening outside of my tightly locked windows. And I became increasingly appalled by the injustice I witnessed: the vitriolic pushback against mask mandates, the attempts to impose voting restrictions on marginalized communities, and the further erosion of gun safety laws. I felt compelled to take action, but also paralyzed by it all — where does one begin when there are so many fires to put out?
Rabbi Matt Berkowitz comments,
“The challenge in our own lives is to recognize our own ‘burning bush’ moments: when a sign appears, we must have the patience and faith to embrace it, understand it, and be inspired by it.”
Turns out, I had no trouble recognizing the burning bush in my backyard. Our three adult children all identify as LGBTQ+. My youngest is transgender. The introduction of over 140 anti-LGBTQ+ bills in the state legislature this past year — with Human Rights Campaign (HRC) reporting that “Texas had a fifth of all of the anti-LGBTQ+ bills introduced in the country” — was my wake up call.
Initially, we thought about moving out of state and closer to our children. But whether it was a “calling” or simply a “wake-up call,” I felt compelled to stay and funnel my newfound inner fire into action.
Last year, I, along with another clergy friend, created an affirming, inclusive congregation that prioritizes social justice advocacy — not just for LGBTQ+ folks but for anyone who needs a safe space to live and pray authentically. We’ve been to the state capitol to protest the unjust bills that have now become law, testified at school board and city council meetings, marched in Pride parades, and forged relationships with other organizations and interfaith communities who share our values. We are small in number but strong in our desire to make our voices heard.
When I began working as a cantor, leaning into social justice advocacy work was not on my radar. I often second-guess my decisions, and I will always choose playing it safe over taking chances.
Yet, even as someone who has virtually no experience in community organizing, I have chosen to risk making mistakes while also learning from those who have made their careers doing this work. And I marvel how they keep at it when it can seem so overwhelming and often hopeless. But that’s where that “nudge” comes into play — that desire to keep going and do what we can to make change, even if that change seems imperceptible most of the time.
Moses’ newfound awareness of God’s presence transforms a pasture where a thorny desert plant burns into a sacred space. Despite his reservations, he is able to see that God’s presence illuminates even the most unassuming, seemingly dark and thorny places. May we, with all our insecurities, do the same.
Cantor Sheri Allen is co-founder of Makom Shelanu Congregation in Ft. Worth, Texas, and a member of the Social Justice Commission of Conservative/Masorti Judaism.
