This is another midrash I wrote for my synagogue’s writing class, obviously not for the High Holidays. Our Noach writings were made into a booklet that was handed out during the Torah service for Parshat Noach. I posted this just before Election Day in 2016.
Last year the writing class at my synagogue had an assignment to write a narrative by one of the animals on the ark. We could choose any animal, and there were quite a variety of choices and of interpretations. This Shabbat a booklet with all of our writings will be handed out at services.
When I reread my tale, it actually seemed quite appropriate for the Shabbat before Election Day. It’s about diversity, compassion, learning to live together, and worrying about those we leave behind. It’s also about living in a changing world we may not understand.
When America is great, it’s because we can do these things together.
The Ass’s Tale
My back hurt.
Such a time we had. Carrying loads of wood while Noah built this strange stable. All my herd worked, but when I came into this place there were only two of us. I didn’t like the feel underfoot - not dirt nor grass nor rock, but something else, made from all that wood we carried, and not quite steady. I did not want to follow the cat - really, me following a cat! - so I stopped midway. That got them into a snit. Such complaining! Where were the others? I saw so many strange creatures, but my herd was nowhere to be seen, and after all that work - I was still carrying on supplies, hay and straw and other things - there seemed to be only two of us. So many strangers, too. I recognized the camels - there were two of them - and a few others, but only one of my herd besides me. He was bigger, also carrying a load, ahead of me a few places in the line.
I had to keep going, of course. We always do that, keep going. And it was beginning to rain. At least they led me to a stall near the other ass, and also near the goats and sheep I knew and some cattle and horses and antelope I didn’t. Some others came from far away - I heard stories of journeys over land and water, through forests of thick trees and fields under a hot sun. We all were tired. Some had worked, some had traveled, and instead of time to recover, we got put into this dark place. We could hear the rain, gentle at first, then beating hard on the roof over our heads. At least we are not out in that rain. I worry about the others.
So we stood around in stalls, sleeping, eating barely enough, all of us wondering what we were doing there. Then the ground, this strange wooden ground, began to move under us, rocking so that it was a job to keep your balance. I was not the only one frightened by that - there was quite a noise as all of us realized what was happening and called out in fear or anger. Some of the animals who had come over the sea remembered feeling things move and rock like this on the water, but that made no sense at all. How could we have come to the sea? It’s hard enough believing that such a place exists, water so big you can’t see land, but when the earth under you is no longer firmly there, how can you trust anything that you have known?
I guess these others nearby are my herd now, even though that seems very strange. The one other from my home herd, I am getting to know better. We she-asses were usually kept together while the males kept to themselves. But he’s turning out to be pretty good company. It’s nice to have someone around who remembers the others and the way our herd was together, all of them like us. But in this new herd I am learning new things. Those of us who have lived with humans still have to watch out for the occasional lion or wolf, but the stories the antelope tell us, or the zebras! They must live in constant fear. It’s hard for them to be here - they can smell the lions and jackals and things even though they must be far away, and they have no place to run, to escape. It must feel very uncertain. The little gazelle hasn’t stopped shaking yet.
We do slide around a bit, which gets on people’s nerves, so there are some arguments, but there are arguments in every herd. Mostly we have come to terms with the fact that this is where we are for now, and that we have to deal with each other. One of the zebras had a problem with a cow, who told him not to be an ass. That got us involved, of course, and one of the goats chimed in amidst the general grumbling. But it doesn’t happen often, and the zebra actually admitted that there are worse things to be. We are all uneasy and cannot figure out why we are here, why we are so crowded into this place that isn’t steady at all, and what happened to our families and friends.
At least the rain has stopped. I had felt like it was going to go on forever. I hear that some of the birds may get sent out to see what has happened. There seems to be a lot of water - maybe we did get to the sea, who knows? - so it has to be the birds.
I hope we get out of here soon.
A slightly belated Shabbat shalom.