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A quote from a great-grandson of the Baal Shem-Tov epitomizes our Torah reading this Shabbat: “No matter how low you may have fallen in your own esteem, bear in mind that if you delve deeply into yourself, you will discover holiness there…a spark you may fan into a consuming flame which will burn away the dross of unworthiness.”

Before I give my own d’var torah, I’d like to read excerpts from one written by Sian Gibby. She is a recent convert to Judaism and a member of Congregation B’nai Jeshurum in New York City.

“Parashat Ekev is the first time the arresting image of circumcising the foreskin of the heart is mentioned in the Torah. Later in Deuteronomy (chapter 30, verse 6), Moses says, 'And the Lord thy god will circumcise thine heart, and the heart of thine seed, that thou mayest live.'

How can we approach the peculiar idea of the heart’s foreskin? A male infant divests himself of the barrier between him and the universe—his mother’s womb—and is totally uncircumcised. And yet we must cut off still another part of him.

This identification gets to the core of what Moses is asking for. God delivers the Israelites into God’s presence, and they realize their sudden nakedness—then they are ordered to cut away the last remaining obstruction between themselves and the Almighty—to remove the dross that stands between them and the infinite truth. We all can become vulnerable like infants when we acknowledge God, and then we must expose even more of ourselves deliberately. We remove what paltry protection we continue to hide in our souls.

The circumcision warning is bracketed in this parasha by exhortations to fear God. What is it that your God desires of you? Be afraid, make yourselves vulnerable. Cut off from the flesh of your soul whatever stands between you and God-consciousness, and your relationship with God will protect you.

Circumcising the heart makes it entirely exposed to God.The naked heart is delicate, new, and pure.The harshness of life’s realities will make you want to run away, to cloak yourself somehow, but you mustn’t, we are told. Strip down and open up. This is a very difficult message to hear and to obey. To be ordered to stay vulnerable makes no sense in this hostile world. We want to ball ourselves up in the fetal position…or in a fist.

As a young man, Abraham Joshua Heschel, newly rescued from the Holocaust, had every reason to ball himself up into a fist.

Yet he prayed to God not for power but for tenderness. In his poem, “My Seal,” he writes: 'Bless me, my spirit, with tenderness instead of might…Tenderness, you ineffable name of God, be my image of God.'”

The phrase circumcising your heart, the basis of the commentary I’ve just read, hit a nerve with me. For most of my life, I have tried to avoid being at the mercy of anything or anybody. Vulnerability means lowering my guard, losing control in the face of disarray and disorder: these are some of my worst fears. It has been painful for me to accept changes thrust upon me—those initiated by well-meaning family and friends--and by the unpredictable undertow of chance. I have rigid routines and perceptions that I cling to for dear life. My universe is circumscribed by these fierce impediments to openness.  Any deviation from what I expect, from what I have planned, threatens my well-rehearsed and well-protected security.

It is so hard for me to relent, never mind repent. Let me give you two examples of how circumcision-proof my heart has been.

When I was in grade school, I was infatuated with vanilla goat-milk fudge. I would spend most of my weekly allowance on that alluring sweet. One day at the end of the week, my best friend offered to get me any thing at all with the penny that he had just found on the sidewalk. Overwhelmed with waves of craving, I told him that I wanted a piece of vanilla goat-milk fudge. I was literally shaking with anticipation. Yet when he returned, he handed me chocolate goat-milk fudge. I was so forlorn and frustrated. I thought about saying something nasty or even hitting him, but I just sulked. Sensing that I was disappointed, if not heartbroken, he apologized; he said he got confused. However, I never forgave him for his honest error.  How about that for an uncircumcised heart! I guess there was a good reason why crabby became my nickname.

As an adult, it’s been a struggle to overcome the hardening of my heart. When I was president of the temple, a congregant during one annual meeting offered a revised schedule for services, contrary to the one I had just proposed. I wanted to dismiss such a subversive suggestion because I had already determined how I wanted things to be run—my enlightened proposal was hammered out on the stone tablets of my unbending will. But soon other congregants opposed my dictate—including my wife. In an unaccustomed public outburst that some of you here tonight might have witnessed, I turned on Marie (my Judas) and exclaimed, “You think it’s so easy to be President—why don’t you try it.” I felt like an a*s*s* afterwards: not wanting my armor to be pierced—not wanting my heart to be circumcised—led to my shame. Needless to say, my home life wasn’t too smooth for a while.

Even after I had my revelation at the beach (when deep within me emerged a poignant voice triumphantly weeping while intoning the end of the 23^rd psalm), I still have remnants of an uncircumcised heart. It isn’t easy for God to cauterize my stubborn habits and cherished preconceptions. But at least I am more aware that I have a problem—a fear of being exposed, of losing my equilibrium, of being washed away in the floodgates of chaos. Often in my dreams(without my sea bands for motion sickness and without my bathing suit), I am frantically trying to stay afloat in a ferocious sea that blots out the shoreline. How’s that for insecurity!

Be that as it may, I am trying to open up to new possibilities. Soon, my wife and I will be traveling to Italy for a month and a half; we haven’t, however, been able to secure appropriate lodging for the first two weeks. Normally, I’d be a wreck having to confront the uncertainty of winging it in a foreign country where most people don’t speak English. But actually, I’m pretty calm. It might even be fun to hopscotch about the Lake Country and the Riviera. Well, maybe fun is too strong a word. Tolerable might be a better word. In any case, the threat of the unknown has lost some of its grip on me. And I have vowed never to lose sight of the following motto, a mini midrash that I hope will sustain me for the rest of my life:  Let go, and let God.      Amen.