Yizkor (YK) — 5779: Eulogy w/Photographs

“Snapshot”

 

Yom Kippur – Yizkor

Neil F. Blumofe

19 September 2018

 

In the past couple of weeks, I have written three eulogies for dear community members, whom I have known for a long time, who have recently passed away.  It’s been a demanding time, and personally challenging.  I view writing a eulogy as a holy process – intensely listening to survivors at various stages of grief, acceptance, and loss – and then translating their words into a cohesive narrative that offers snapshots of a life, lived.  How is it possible to boil down the ins and outs of an individual life to a few pages – expressing only the shadowy outline of someone’s thoughts and feelings – actions and dreams?  A eulogy seems to be an inadequate resume that barely scratches the surface of a passionate life.

 

Eulogy in Hebrew is hesped, which comes from the root for wailing or lament.  According to the 16^th century compendium of Jewish law, the Shulchan Aruch – the way one gives a hesped is to say things concerning the departed one that break the heart, so that there will be much crying – taking special effort to mention the person’s good deeds.  An earlier source for Jewish tradition, the Talmud, asks the important question – is the hesped for the living or the dead – and not surprisingly, concludes that the eulogy has dual aspects – benefitting both the one who has passed away, and giving comfort to the ones mourning their loss.

 

Speaking about eulogizing on Yom Kippur seems very appropriate, for a hesped is a means through which the living begin to achieve atonement by learning from the deeds of the dead – and thus, it is reasoned, that we as survivors are motivated to undertake the process of teshuvah.  The understanding here is that speaking about our cherished ones helps to bring the dead to life, and in recounting their praises and good deeds, now with a contrite heart, people will learn from them, and in learning how our loved ones conducted themselves, we can emulate them and thus, be motivated to be better.

 

Another way to think about the power of a eulogy is to state that it is a means through which we reaffirm our belief in the continued existence of the neshamah – of the soul, beyond the seen parameters of this world.  With a eulogy, as we recount the praises and good deeds of the ones we love, it is as if we are representing them and pleading their case before the Heavenly Court – as a midrash on the Book of Ecclesiastes states – when a person dies, God says to the angels – go and see what the people say about them.

 

This is to assert that the soul continues beyond this world and which is judged, based on the acts that the deceased person performed in this world.  This is why our tradition guides us to speak eulogies in the presence of dead, in order that the dead person, the niftar in Hebrew, will be able to hear their own defense, as our Talmud states – be fervent in my hesped, for I will be present there.

 

Not surprisingly, there is also an approach that combines these two ideas – that hearing a eulogy motivates the living to do teshuvah and consequently uplifts and gives merit to the soul of the niftar, allowing it to ascend higher and higher to the Throne of Glory – or in the mystical understanding of God, to have the soul rejoin the infinite, the Ein Sof – returning to the One from Whom it came.

 

Very often, when I am teaching a class or holding an essentially Ask the Rabbi session, someone will ask about what happens to us after we die.  In answering this question, I speak about the Ein Sof and how our individual soul returns to the great cosmic force that is the energy of all.  I generally speak about the recycling, or the continuation of the spiritual genetics from one generation to the next.  Just as physical characteristics are passed on – hair color or a particular laugh — so too, our spiritual characteristics are passed on – particular traits like one’s capacity for empathy, modesty, ambition – or the deep-rooted dilemma of trauma – all of this known as epigenetic inheritance, or molecular memory.  We are more than the person that we think we are – and certainly more than meets the outward eye.

 

As the neuroscience journalist, Dan Hurley has written – like silt deposited on the cogs of a finely tuned machine after the seawater of a tsunami recedes, our experiences, and those of our forebears, are never gone, even if they have been forgotten.  They become a part of us, a molecular residue holding fast to our genetic scaffolding.  The mechanisms of behavioral epigenetics underlie not only deficits and weaknesses, but strengths and resiliencies, too.  The genome has long been known as the blueprint of life – but the epigenome is life’s Etch A Sketch – shake it hard enough, and you can reset it.   

 

Science is trying to figure out how to better control and even reverse this epigenetic inheritance, especially in the realm of trauma, and early studies have shown that if we have an enriched environment in our lives, then the elimination of traumatic symptoms is increased.  So, what would be an enriched environment for us?  Here are some suggestions: eat more healthy food – what we put into our mouth has everything to do with what goes on in our head.  Exercise – it’s the best things we can do for our brain.  Enrich our brain by exposing it to new challenges every day.  Laugh more.  Connect with others more.

 

We have the power to influence our realities, and the superpower to influence future generations.  Even though we can’t control the past, we do have the ability to choose our behavior and our perspective, which can then cause different genes to express themselves – allowing us to fulfill the mandate to be a light unto this world, and at the same time to interrupt and redirect the admonition of the Torah – pokaid avon avot al banim v’al b’nei vanim al shileishim v’al ribei’im – visiting the iniquity of the ancestors upon the children, and upon the children’s children – to the third and fourth generation.

 

We are going to experience a bit of healing this morning.  Taking the lessons and the purpose of a eulogy to heart, I have asked three in our community to speak first about the memories and lessons learned from their loved ones, and then each of us will have a few moments to share memories together about the people whose photographs we brought with us.    

 

Our tradition compellingly teaches that by speaking about someone whom we have loved, we have the ability to have them remain dynamic in our lives – to keep them unstuck in our memory and for them to be a curative part of our everyday, as opposed to sitting as a weight on our souls like a burdensome, tightly wound spool of grief.  We are able to continue to energetically engage with the ones whom we love – as we continue to tell their stories, and as we offer eulogies that continue to gently and softly unspool in our own life’s discovery.

 

We will hear from three in our community, about the stories that they have learned and ways that they continue to put one foot in front of the other as they continue to process loss.  I hope that these three can serve as models for us this morning, and going forward – for us to articulate beauty and pliancy — beyond the sediment and the heavy sludge of our hearts.  From here, we will then have the opportunity to engage with each other – in dyads and small groups — creating constellations of engagement as we share our photographs and our stories together.

 

As you are sharing and during the prayers of Yizkor that follow, we are all invited to place your cherished photographs in our ark, where they will remain this Yom Kippur.  This evening, during Neilah, you are welcome to take back your pictures as you place the rose petals in the ark.

 

As we access memory and consequently endure the risks of our sharing about the photos that we are carrying –  here is a poem called psalm, written by Alicia Suskin Ostriker.

 

I endure impure periods

When I cannot touch you

Or even look at you

You are a storm I would be electrocuted

By your approach then I feel some sort of angelic laughter

Like children behind a curtain

Come, I think

You are at my fingertips my womb

You are the wild driver of my vehicle

The argument in my poem

Nothing between us

Only breath.

 

SPEAKERS

 

Marcus Shaftel 

Jonathan Silverstein

Fai Lee Steinberg 

Kol Nidre — 5779: Power

“Yes or No”

 

Yom Kippur – Kol Nidrei

Neil F. Blumofe

18 September 2018

 

All of us assembling this evening are like angels, expectant and hopeful that we have been redeemed from our transgressions of this past year – and we enter into this Yom Kippur refreshed and eager that we can interrupt and rehabilitate the unhelpful patterns that cause us innate pain and alienation past some momentary pleasure.  Without judgment, and with deep discernment, we are meant to mend that which is torn – to live fully in this sacred time – entering now into the 50^th gate – what our mystics describe as Sha’ar Binah – or the Gate of Understanding – and as we pass through this gate, we are to recognize the true freedom and profundity that our soul possesses, detached and apart from any mortal servitude.

 

In this time, we practice self-restraint most notably by fasting — not to afflict ourselves, but rather as a gesture to gain a greater perspective of the world and our place in the world.  We earnestly encounter our impermanence in this world, not to freak us out and cause us heavy feelings of morbidity – but rather to appreciate this moment as a powerful moment – a moment into which we can pour our essentiality, and feel enlightened and wholly alive – come what may inevitably, tomorrow.  We are to power through our distractions, we are to sidestep our looming agendas, and we are to revel in the moments of quality that are suddenly, surprisingly made manifest amid our internal chatter and conditioned expectation.

 

So, welcome – it is good and sweet to walk in these hours together.  May each of us find what we seek – may we enlarge our capacity for spiritual challenge as we rewire our neurological receptors for what we think of as recognized and established.  May we dare to see the world from other vantage points – and may we venture into the more impenetrable wilderness of our interior spaces, reassured that we are not alone – as we take a chance on this holy day of atonement.

 

In fifth grade, I got into a fight during recess.  Well, this isn’t exactly true – to be more accurate, I was called out by a particular bruiser, as he pushed me into his sphere of domination and taunted me to throw a punch at him on the playground.  I don’t remember the exact genesis of the altercation.  I do remember that suddenly we were surrounded by the other kids, who I think were frantically chanting, “fight, fight, fight,” and I was hauled off to the principal’s office, where I indignantly claimed injustice because I was the victim.  I was the aggresse – I didn’t do anything – I didn’t throw a punch — and I meekly protested.  No matter.  I got detention.

 

A few years ago, one of my children, then in middle school, had someone come up to them and provoke them, spewing something vile and negative about Jews and about being a Jew.  Without hesitation, and with no words spoken, he (or she!) turned and punched the bully in the face.  That ended that, and the school authorities were never summoned, that heckler was silenced, and my child has not suffered any similar indignities to this day.  What’s the moral of this story?  It’s complicated.    

 

On this holiest day of the year, I ask us to consider our relationship to power.  Who are the role models that populate and confirm our sense of self?  As Jews – interconnected and diverse, how do we relate to and abide each other?  What cues do we take from culture about our positions in the larger society?  On Yom Kippur, we play both ends against the middle – offering a sacrifice to both God and Azazel – hedging our bets, giving protection money and obeisance to the aggressor.  We stand over and over again, reminding God of the Divine attributes of mercy, compassion, graciousness, truth, kindness and pardon, as we plead for our lives.   We are, each of us, possessed with considerable power.  When is the time for us to act with force and when is the time for us to act with restraint?  Inspired by the Book of Ecclesiastes as it asks us next week during Sukkot – is there a time of humiliation and a time of respect?  What is the measure of our response to the difficulties and challenges that are pitted, all around us?

 

It is now that we feature and privilege the various forms of teshuvah – selicha, mechilah, and kapparah – stances and stages of pardon.  According to the 16^th-century mystical work, Tomer Devorah, written by Rabbi Moshe Cordovero about the 13 Attributes of God, the first step is selicha – or general forgiveness.  This is to say that I am sorry for what I have done – I sincerely regret it, and I will intend to never do it again – this level cracks open the door of possibility.  The next level is mechila – which can translate as “wiping away.”  This level is the aspiration that a relationship can be restored to a place it was before the treachery or bad behavior.  The deepest level is kapparah – what is known as atonement.  This level comes into play when an individual states that their conscience will not let them live with themselves, because of what they have done to assail a person and poison a relationship.  Our tradition teaches that no human can respond adequately to this – rather, it is up to God who can reach the depths of a person and say, be comforted.  It is this comfort that is hopefully gained today, on Yom Kippur.

 

And yet, no matter how high we ascend and how angelic we may present on this day, it is hard to release ourselves from our material world predominantly into the ethereal realm.  Yes, now we are in precious, sanctified space – and yet, our thoughts wander, we are preoccupied, some of us have had first responder training leading up to tonight, and each of us has already passed through a gauntlet of scrutiny and the various security checkpoints, ticket in hand, so we can be here, at peace – as the grim words attributed to George Orwell resound – people sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

 

 

To be candid, as we settle in, I assume like many of you, my thoughts are absorbed by the current state of our world.  To give myself over to these three stages of pardon could be construed as a quaint parlor game – an entertainment or a pastime that doesn’t adequately address the built-in pain, suffering, bigotry, inequality, and maltreatment in our world.  In reflecting upon this, it seems that I’m back in the principal’s office in 5^th grade, fruitlessly advocating for my position, when I don’t even know the rules of the game.  Why can’t I be more like my kid, and punch hatred square in the face?  For those of you who were here on Rosh haShanah – this is our Rebbe Levi Yitzhak of Bereditchev moment – as we argue with God and attempt to set new parameters of engagement away from unjust punishment and scorn.  Even with all of the considerable spiritual preparations that I have made in advance of this time, can I sit and access comfort from God, can I be granted kapparah, when everything around me burns?

 

I stand before you this Kol Nidre and I attempt to offer each of us inspiration – a way through this present-day morass.  Many of us are frustrated, on edge, and anxious – and I would like nothing better than to clear the road now for the sweet vehicle of comfort to arrive here, unimpeded.  I’d like nothing more than to have this d’var Torah suddenly be interrupted by the Divine Voice booming at us – “Alright, alright, alright – be comforted!  — and, go home!”

 

We are beseeched on Yom Kippur, with more than a knowing stare from the prophet Isaiah – because you fast in strife and contention, and you strike with a wicked fist – your fasting today is not such as to make your voice heard on high.  We are counseled not to raise our fist – on Yom Kippur, Isaiah challenges us to manage our problems with a modicum of self-control and with a theology of nonviolence.

 

And yet, I am grappling at this time with our relationship to power – both our subjection to it, and the ways that we dominate others with what power we possess.  I am concerned about the increase of natural disaster declarations in our world, I am troubled by the seeming dissolution of democracy in America and around the world, I lose sleep over what it means to be Jewish this year, and who gets to define it as I grapple with the quandary of intermarriage and assimilation the work to improve the financial stability of our community, and the ever-vanishing American Jew, I am distressed by the rise of antisemitism, as it is rendered routine in organizations like the Labour Party in Britain, and also, the pervading bias against Israel in places like the United Nations – I am distressed by the fire balloons launched this summer into Israel that have caused great damage, and the continued sabotaging of any efforts for peace and normalizing relationships between Israel and her neighbors, and at the same time, I am disturbed by the increased suspicion and scrutiny of people by security representing Israel’s government as they look to enter into Israel – and I am very troubled by the pre-dawn detention and questioning of a colleague of mine – a Conservative rabbi in Haifa who performed a wedding that was neither sanctioned by nor registered with the Chief Rabbinate.

 

I, like you, could go on – as we see our world in these beginning days of 5779.  In the last several months, I have read books written by friends and teachers.  I recommend them to you, as well – books that include Letters to My Palestinian Neighbor by Yossi Klein Halevi, Catch-67, by Micah Goodman, and Rise and Kill First: The Secret History of Israel’s Targeted Assassinations, by Ronen Bergman – all of which I have spoken about in this sanctuary.  (We’re open every Saturday!).  I have reread the remarkably thoughtful book by Ruth Wisse called Jews and Power, and I have read Just Mercy, the memoir of Bryan Stephenson – who is the founder and executive director of the Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama – the organization that has recently opened both the Legacy Museum: From Enslavement to Mass Incarceration and the National Memorial for Peace and Justice, more commonly known as the United States Lynching Memorial – I had a chance to meet him this summer, as part of my road trip with Rev. Daryl Horton, and I have also just finished the last work by Martin Luther King, Jr., called Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community, which was published in the months before his assassination.

 

The good news is that it seems that we have been here before.  The bad news is that in many ways, we are still struggling to get off the mark to maximize goodness in this world and to tamp down our most base instincts as the disconnection among us grows, and as we continue to be corrupted, even unwittingly, by the politics of fear and anger.

 

Our prophets give us a pathway forward.  As we sing, especially on Hanukah, as Zechariah writes – lo v’chayil, v’lo v’choach, ki im b’ruchi — not by might, and not by power, but by My spirit, says the God of Hosts.  This is inspirational – and yet this anthem is challenged by the existential fear of being in the presence of one who wants to harm you.  What then?  Wouldn’t it be more helpful to say with might and with power, and with awe of God’s spirit, as we assert our right for survival – and we’ll rely on whatever helps?  As Napoleon taught, it is crucial at all times to have an iron hand in a velvet glove.

 

Deeply encoded in our Jewish psyche is this sense of helplessness, or distress.  Ruth Wisse speaks persuasively about this – this sense of powerlessness engrained in our rabbinic literature for generation to generation, as Jews were a targeted and vulnerable minority in this world, moving to a muscular Judaism as the state of Israel was advocated for by Max Nordau at the Second Zionist Congress in 1898 – where Jews were encouraged to cultivate strong and healthy bodies as well as strong minds – to give us a rugged sense of somebody-ness.  This stereotype is at the core of the fissure between Diaspora Judaism, which is perceived as weak, and Israeli-ness, which is perceived as strong — something that we as a people are vigorously trying to work out and reconcile.

 

Think of the stereotypes of each place – in the Diaspora we have Jerry Seinfeld, and Woody Allen, and many other nebbishy figures – and in Israel?  There is the heroic Netflix series of Fauda, the hyper masculine Col. Erran Morad, portrayed by Sacha Baron Cohen, and the wondrous superhero, Gal Gadot.

 

Do you know this one — one of my favorite jokes is about the American who is traveling to Israel on El Al – and it’s time for breakfast.  The Israeli flight attendant comes and offer a meal.  “Great, what are my choices?” asks the American.  “Yes or no,” curtly answers the flight attendant.

 

A recent New Republic issue features twelve perspectives from leading American-Jewish writers, including Yehuda Kurtzer, the president of the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America, who will be speaking at Agudas Achim on 24 February, thanks in large part to the dedicated efforts of our Sharon Jayson.   These essays highlight the shifting relationship between the Jewish Diaspora in American and Israel.  Kurtzer claims that at root, virtually all of those living and working in the Jewish world — those who have power in America — are trying to prevent the process of distancing of the Diaspora and Israel from taking hold.   We are trying to hold us together.  Beyond different priorities and variant cultural norms and practices, past colliding political positions, and differing perspectives concerning identity, is the need to teach confidence, curiosity, knowledge, and nuance in handling complicated subjects and uncertain outcomes.

 

Kurtzer ends his essay with a challenge – a serious American Jewish Zionism would also articulate twin meanings of home for American Jews (here) and homeland (there), unconvinced by the arguments that the one invalidates the other.  The contemporary moment offers unparalleled possibilities for a rich Jewish future offered by two thriving Jewish civilizations, as well as the unique opportunity to improve on the legacy of the Jewish past.  Neither abandoning the project of Israel, nor slavish loyalty to it, does service to who we are as morally, historically, or politically serious Jews…The simultaneous births of the state of Israel and a thriving Diaspora may be the most interesting, possibly the most valuable transformation in Jewish history.  Israel changes the very meaning of Judaism…and presents an opportunity to the Jewish people, not to be squandered to shape that meaning.   

 

Despite the absurdity and the potential malpractice of the principal’s office, do we still believe in the authority and power that it wields, or do we rely more on playground justice – a belief that might makes right, and everything and everyone should fall in line from there – as the fittest and most wily survive?  I didn’t reprimand my kid.  Nevertheless, let us resist Maslow’s law of the instrument which states that everything looks like a nail, when all you have is a hammer.  As both Superman and Spiderman say — with great power comes great responsibility.  We need additional tools.  We need moral power along with military power.  We must work towards moral progress as well as technological progress.  Beyond our technological abundance we must address the poverty of the spirit.

 

As Martin Luther King writes, power is not a specific birthright.  It will not be legislated and deliver in neat packages.  It is a social force that any group can utilize by accumulating its elements in a planned deliberate campaign to organize it under its own control.  Tonight, as we move more deeply into Yom Kippur, let us rescue the words of President George HW Bush – words that he said as he accepted his path towards power – words that seem downright adorable and so precious thirty years later – let us be a kinder, gentler community.  Let us listen well so we can hear God’s voice proclaiming, “be comforted” – so we can get kapparah — and if we don’t hear it, let us proclaim this comfort in God’s stead.  Let us gather power by together being a social force, each of us granting each other comfort.  If we can’t hear God say it, let us say it ourselves – Be Comforted!

 

Towards this end, I would like us to offer a meditation about power and comfort for us to consider – as we struggle past our own expectations of this time, and our own image of ourselves.  To me, Ana beKoach, this mystical prayer regarding power speaks about love and the truth and reconciliation work that is open to us in this time of atonement, as we navigate our way.  It is a perfect partner to the 13 Attributes of God as we go on our journey.  We can take our instinct to punch someone and instead, channel it differently — possessed by both strength and boundaries — as expressed when praying God’s name.  Let us hold this prayer as we venture forth into Yom Kippur and as we pray the 13 Atrtributes over and over.  Together, we can move from slavery to freedom – we can enact teshuvah – we can do selicha and mechilah and thus, hear the Divine voice from within our own murmuring deep – kapparah – Yom Kippur — Be Comforted.  And as we receive this comfort, each of us in this journey, we can unravel our internal emotional and spiritual knots and find our place tonight, each of us as angels among angels.

 

Ana b’choach g’dulat yeh’mincha, tatir tz’rurah – if you would God, may your powerful hand undo the knots that tie us up.  Baruch Shem Kevod Malchuto l’Olam va’Ed – through time and space, Your glory shines, Majestic One. 

 

May our power be respected, may our soul be comforted and may our bodies be refreshed, as Yom Kippur begins.

 

Yasher Ko’ach!  Ketivah va’Hatimah Tovah — G’mar Hatimah Tovah.

Ekev (5776) — The Runway

 

 

Parashat Ekev

Neil F. Blumofe

27 August 2016

 

Yesterday afternoon, I called my oldest son who lives in Brooklyn to offer him the Shabbat blessings a parent offers to a child – as I usually do, every week.  As many of you may remember, he has just returned from leading a Birthright Trip to Israel and he has begun his fall semester at college, and we hadn’t yet had an opportunity to catch up.

 

He was telling me how over the journey, he led two Shabbat experiences for the Birthright contingent – 40 young people, ages 18-26.  The first Shabbat coincided with Tisha b’Av – so he also chanted a chapter of the Book of Lamentation and spoke to the travelers about how to live with both tragedy and joy, together.  After that first Shabbat, the Israeli guides took him aside and mentioned that while they appreciated his depth and intensity and they admired his passion, that in their experience the groups that they had seen were not yet ready for such intense moments.  They asked that he consider a longer runway for bringing the people into the richness and the complexity of what Judaism and being Jewish offered – especially while in Israel.

 

With his usual levelheadedness, he took their advice and in that next Shabbat in the context of the prayers and themes of the day, was asking the group to think about what emotions usually surface for each of them when they feel uncomfortable, disappointed, or overwhelmed.  What were their go to responses?  Did they each take responsibility for how they themselves felt, or did they lash out at another and seek to pin blame, fault, and inadequacy on someone else?

 

After an initial backlash from one or two of the participants who felt annoyed by this exercise, once each of them allowed this to be a legitimate exploration, my son mentioned that the group was able to grow in connection and in respect for each other and in what motivated each of them as they looked to flourish and move through life.  In the context of their experiences together – even the Israeli guides whose opinions my son respected and heeded – were able to fully participate in this work, trusting that the intense moments shared with the group on the 10-day journey offset their own concerns of what could be the ramifications of too honest a conversation.

 

Our Torah, in profound wisdom, prepares us nicely for to do this similar work as we anticipate the new Hebrew month of Elul.  Our tradition teaches that this month, just before the turning of the New Year, is when God is closest to us – and offers us the chance to be most vulnerable and ready to move past our own familiar stories and truths that we hold to be immutable – past the limits of our own assumptions, as we seek to improve our lives.

 

The concept of teshuvah is ascendant now – a time, not when we wipe our slates clean with each other, but rather, when we realize that our relationships together continue in the brokenness that has been and in the fresh hopes that still await us.

 

Moses is addressing the people on the banks of the Jordan River, just before they enter into the Promised Land without him.  In his own processing of his disappointment that he will be left on the Eastern bank of the Jordan, while the people move forward – he reminds the people of their baser qualities as he prepares them for the journey and ultimately, for confrontation with those others who are already living in cities across the river.

 

Moses reminds them that they have been constantly coarse and reckless with each other – and because of their behavior, have disrespected God all along their journey.  Moses reminds them of their building a Golden Calf – and how Moses broke the original tablets and went back to Mount Sinai to get a replacement – and here the Torah provides an exquisite detail – that both the new Tablets and the original ones that Moses smashed would together be contained in the ark that the people carried.

 

Moses is reminding the people of their mistakes – and rather than focus exclusively on them, having them become the centerpiece of all future interactions with the people – rather than having these mistakes become the only topic of conversation – and the only defining action that describes the people forevermore, the Torah takes this brokenness and puts it in a box – allowing it to coexist with a restorative future.

 

Our sages speculate on this instruction and offer creative ideas of why now the group is actually more whole in assimilating what disappointments have been, rather than casting them aside.  What is the value in knowing ourselves and how we react to mistakes?  How can this knowledge prepare us for the confrontations that we will inevitably have with others who are hostile to us?  How can true forgiveness not be a trite – forgive and forget, but rather a commitment to live again and again in relationship together – always communicating and acknowledging the scars that surely come after living in relationship.  What is the value of the brokenness?

 

As Jews, we mark the period of mourning with a tear of a ribbon or of our clothing – we project to the world that we are broken and diminished – and after a period of time the external kria goes away and we are expected to immerse again in the world. And yet, those of us who have been mourners – we realize that the internal tearing never fully heals.  Our hearts, once wounded, remember the wound.  Are we able to live fully with tragedy and joy in the same place?  Can we carry both the second tablets and the broken ones in the same box together, as people expect us to eventually move on?

 

The Talmud sage Reish Lakish teaches – p’amim shebitulah shel Torah z’hu y’suda — that there are times when the nullification of Torah may be its foundation (Menachot 99b).    As the New Year approaches, seeing, collecting, and carrying the breaking may give us a new way forward – and allow us to engage each other wakefully and compassionately.  If we realize that we are all mourners to some degree – carrying a broken heart inside of us, we can engage differently – allowing us to really explore what emotions usually surface for each of us when we feel uncomfortable, disappointed, or overwhelmed – and we can modulate.

 

Together, can we not be stronger as a coalition of the willing?  Are each of us ready to embark upon this journey of transformation – proactively applying the gifts of our tradition, rather than reactively avoiding them or paying lip service to them?  In these intense moments, can we allow ourselves to move beyond our initial emotional defense mechanisms – accepting this gift — a new day, in a new month dedicated to teshuvah — with new tablets that are more valuable to us precisely because they are joined wherever we go — in our tragedy and in joy — in the constant reminder of our brokenness.

 

Shabbat Shalom.