My God,
Shaddai,
Tzevaot,
All of my being,
Made in Your design.
From mud and clay you formed Adam,
My father, and my father’s father,
And today I give You, Adonai,
Formed from the same soil, the clay of Jerusalem,
A son.
I did everything right, I swear,
He was made to be grand and glorious.
My shaking hands, my weary knees,
I am nothing but your follower, your sheep,
And yet, I have created life.
This old back of mine sloughed the mud of Zion onto the dried carcass of this father Golem,
The ancient and decrepit protector of this city,
Reinvigorating him, making him young and new.
With trembling hands I sculpted his face,
Features as strong as Your hand,
Av Ha-Rahimim.
With the nail of my finger I carved on his young forehead the sacred letters (as instructed);
Aleph, mem, tav;
Emet, my lord, truth.
He came to life (what a glorious mitzvah).
The air seemed to stand still around him,
I could feel my own breath,
Being dragged into the cracks of his skin,
Into the hollow sockets of his eyes,
The aching depth of his mouth.
Your son. My son.
I gave him Your name,
Tsur; rock.
He worked well in the home.
Moving the cattle, collecting dates from the trees, building homes for Your children from the same material of which he was created.
Mattanah, my gift from God.
No.
Minchach, my gift to You,
Ehyeh.
I gave this creature life so that You might take root in his beautiful body.
I built a home for Your soul, my Lord, so that You may come to Earth,
To Zion,
And protect my people,
Your sheep,
To be close to me,
To allow me to gaze into the breathtaking blackness of his eyes,
And see You there.
Instead, all I see is dust.
All I see is my own failure to create a home worthy enough for Your soul;
Ruach ha-kodesh.
While he rests, I dampen his forehead and swipe my finger over his brow,
Removing the aleph, leaving only:
Met; death.
His hand comes up to my wrist, squeezing it gently.
This thing is not You.
For You, Elohim, death is not real, there is no real fear of it,
And yet as Tsur pinches my wrist, his hand trembles.
He is afraid.
His skin crumples from him.
He dissolves into dust,
Which I wet and smear on his old carcass yet again.
This time I am more thorough, I make him again in Your likeness,
God made man, man-made God,
(please, you must be exactly like me).
This time I sing those same letters around Your new body,
And cry out Your name until You scratch at my throat,
Until I can no longer hear my call for You, HaShem.
And it works!
You give him life!
But yet again, you will not take a liking to this form I have gifted You.
I wrap his arms around myself and I don’t feel Your warm embrace. Only dry earth.
I am enraged, El,
I will not lie to you.
I stick a piece of parchment into Tsur’s mouth, ordering him to sit,
Stay,
And I hobble around him again, this time backwards,
Those some letters clawing their way out of my mouth,
Your name, all backwards.
Yet again, he turns to dust.
I sculpt him a third and final time,
I kneel in front of this body I have made for You,
This shapeless mass,
I chant the shem,
I wrap my arms around his knees,
I weep Your name into them, wetting the clay around my own face,
A cast of my sorrow imprinted on his shin.
Yet again, You bring him to life, but You won’t take to him.
Why, God, what have I done wrong?
I have made him beautiful.
My mind has raced around the silhouette of You,
Tried to outline the shape of Your soul, to imagine a glimpse of You,
And I have worked hard, I have been Your slave,
I made this golem for You.
Please, God, if You have condemned me to a fate in this frail body, please,
Accept the glorious one I have made and remade over and over again in my image of You.
Burning back, my knees give out.
Everything aches.
As I lay in a heap under You, Eloah,
Spasming from pain,
Looming above; the Shamayim,
The shadow of Tsur envelops the weak body You have sculpted for me,
Sending chills down my broken spine.
And while I think about my father,
And my father’s father,
And Adam, the first father,
I sob.
All of the men who have come before me,
Good men, good sheep,
Who wanted only to be close to You,
To share a home with You, to break fast with You,
But who were, instead, banished to these cold, soft bodies.
Rooted so deeply to the earth that only in death we could hope to meet You.
I hum Your name, Your most glorious name,
My fate,
And the fate of Tsur,
And the fate of all the men,
Good Jewish men,
Before and after me:
Ein-sof.
No end.
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