I never knew what this felt like. I really never knew.
27 years as a rabbi, caring for others and yet, I never knew.
After all those sermons about death and dying, about loss and living on, I never knew.
Through the innumerable condolence calls, leading countless shiva minyanim, in fact I never knew.
Over years of checking in on others, In late night calls and texts Just so they would know They were not alone, That we hadn’t forgotten, Still I never knew.
Even after officiating at funeral after funeral after funeral, Until the losses piled up so high that They became part of the cycle of life Yet each one representing a precious moment of memory, a unique life, For some reason I never knew.
Yes He was old And yes He was ill And yes He was ready And yet, still
While my loss is no greater, and My pain is no sharper, while My sadness is no deeper Than those of countless others. Still
This sadness, this sorrow Is like no other Because although I have counseled many others Through the valley of the shadow of death, Nonetheless
Nonetheless Today this death is mine
And I am starting to realize: The emptiness of loss The sadness of what isn’t anymore The foreverness of it all.
You see My dad is dead. And what is that like?
I think I wish I never knew.
— Rabbi Paul Kipnes serves Congregation Or Ami in Calabasas, CA.
I wrote the draft of what would come to be a Reflection for Focus in my book, Opening Your Heart with Psalm 27, “In God’s [Not Yet Perfect] House” on October 4, 2017, a few mornings after country music fans were murdered at the Route 91 Harvest Festival. The reality of what seemed unbelievable was becoming incomprehensibly comprehensible and I reflected on the Psalmist’s affirmation, and deepest desire, to live in God’s house. It was hard that morning to feel like we were living in God’s house—where such hatred was possible.
It was chol hamo’ed sukkot and the fragility of the world felt all too real. In the weeks that followed, as I edited this piece, my goal was to capture that moment in time, and allow it to reflect the timelessness of the psalm, to help us see hope and find courage, to make God’s house a holy place. What I never imagined is that what I wrote would be relevant, over and over again, in just two years, not because it brought illumination to Psalm 27:4 in a new way, but because we would bear witness, again and again, to mass shootings, in public places—in synagogues and mosques, in school and shopping malls, and now in the mid-western city of Dayton and the Texas border city of El Paso. The scenes of bloodshed are horrifically similar, the calls for political action and the lack of it are also despairingly alike, and our urgent questions of faith remain too.
Psalm 27:4 In God’s [Not Yet Perfect] House
One thing have I sought from Adonai—how I long for it: That I may live in the House of Adonai all the days of my life; That I may look upon the sweetness of Adonai, And spend time in the Palace;
The boots scoot, the hats ride high, the beer flows, guitars twang, harmony rings loud. Here in God’s country house the story is always bittersweet: love then loss, pain then healing, doubt then faith, then doubt again.
This is God’s house, but is God home? Some say, no. Thousands plan to party while one has other plans. Ten minutes of sheer terror. Shots. Bullets. Blood. Final breath. Fear. Horror. The dread of death.
This is God’s house, but is God home? Some say, maybe. He uses his body as a human shield. She grasps a stranger’s hand while the life force ceases. They hold each other and move silently toward the exit.
This is God’s house, but is God home? I say, yes. This house of God, where we live, where we gamble with our money, with our values, with our own lives and the lives of others, is not yet perfect.
But God is always home. Rescuers. First responders. Kind people with holy instincts doing God’s work, singing melodies of courage, in God’s not yet perfect house
— In honor of those who survived and in memory of those who were murdered at the Route 91 Harvest Festival, Las Vegas, October 1, 2017, between Yom Kippur and Sukkot 5778.
Rabbi Debra J. Robbins has served Temple Emanu-El in Dallas since 1991 and currently works closely with the Social Justice and Adult Jewish Learning Councils, the Pastoral Care department, a variety of Worship initiatives, and teaches classes for adults. She is the author of Opening Your Heart with Psalm 27: A Spiritual Practice for the Jewish New Year, published by CCAR Press.
We must carry the pain of this world, feel its weight, its sadness, and its burden.
We live as one humanity, in one world, one community, and our neighbors are kind and beautiful and they are callous and indifferent and they are hateful and evil.
So, choose, what kind of neighbor do you want to be? And we choose to wake up the apathetic soul. And we choose not to look away from the glare of cruelty.
Who are we, for God’s sake? Who have we become?
Today, August 6, is my brother’s birthday. After his sudden and tragic death, I wrote this prayer. I offer it to all who are suffering:
Esa Einai: I Lift My Eyes For Neil Dion Schwartz 1958-2002
I am searching for words For the words that describe, Make sense, or at least comfort. Words that summon me from the depths Of my solitude.
In the night, there is darkness. Restless attempts to sleep, Twisting, turning into the shadows. As I seek a comfortable pose I bring my knees to my chest Folding my dreams in half; Will the crease ever come out?
And in the day there are Silent attempts to find hope. Twisting, turning toward the light As I look for direction, a path, a way.
It is not easy to find the way. And so, I lift my eyes to the mountains Heaven lays her head upon the mountaintop And I begin to climb.
What is the source of my help? I climb and gaze upon the vistas. More mountains, more horizons Never-ending moments where heaven meets earth, Never-ending possibilities to meet the Divine.
Lift me, carry me, offer me courage. Help me understand life’s sharpest paradox: That to live is tragic and wonderful, Painful and awesome, dark and filled with light.
I lift my eyes to the summit And as I climb I find my help In the turning and twisting it takes toAscend. I have found a path and it is worn and charted By all those who are summoned from solitude. I take their lead. And I know that in the most essential way I am being carried up the mountain. And even now, Dear God, even now I am not alone.
From The Bridge to Forgiveness: Stories and Prayers for Finding God and Restoring Wholeness. Republished in Amen: Seeking Presence with Prayer, Poetry, and Mindfulness Practice, CCAR Press, Coming in December 2019.
— Rabbi Karyn Kedar, Senior Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Jehoshua Beth Elohim in Deerfield, IL, is widely recognized as an inspiring leader who guides people in their spiritual and personal growth. She is the author of many books, including Omer: A Countingfrom CCAR Press, and Amen: Seeking Presence with Prayer, Poetry, and Mindfulness Practice, coming in December 2019.
Recently, I read a report from the Rand
Corporation entitled, “Truth Decay: An Initial Exploration of the Diminishing
role of Facts and analysis in American Public Life” written by Jennifer
Kavanaugh and Michael D. Rich in which the researchers rediscovered that, “…national political and civil discourse
in the United States has been characterized by “Truth Decay,” defined
as a set of four interrelated trends: an increasing disagreement about facts
and analytical interpretations of facts and data; a blurring of the line
between opinion and fact; an increase in the relative volume, and resulting
influence, of opinion and personal experience over fact; and lowered trust in
formerly respected sources of factual information. The most damaging
consequences of Truth Decay include the erosion of civil discourse, political
paralysis, alienation and disengagement of individuals from political and civic
institutions, and uncertainty over national policy.” While this should surprise no one, it lead to
wonder how much decay was really going on with me as it relates to the most
pressing issues of our day. How much do
I “know” and how much do I “believe” or want to believe about what is happening
all around me.
This concern has surfaced most acutely as it relates to the immigration and asylum seeker policies unfolding in our country and prominently felt in my current home state of Texas. I saw the reports of families separated; I watched in pain and horror of overcrowded detention centers, children sleeping on floors, frantic parents, crying children. I listened to analyses trying to explain away what I saw, and trying to emphasize what I saw, sometimes in the same news program. I absorbed the politician’s spin ono both sides of the aisle. I talked to immigration attorneys and asylum seeker support service providers. I spoke with a close friend who works for the Department of Homeland Security who works on the border who told me flat out, “don’t believe what you see or hear because it’s all wrong.” Apart from the irony of insisting I believe him over everything else, part of me knew what he was really saying was, “you gotta see this yourself.”
So when the invitation came from Repairers of the Breach, the Rev. Dr. William Barber’s organization, to join with Rabbi Rick Jacobs, my friend and colleague Imam Omar Suleiman and others to bear witness to this issue in El Paso last Sunday and Monday, I knew I had no choice but to go and see for myself and this was the time to be a part of the testimony of this great stain on the soul of our country; that there is, in the words of Kohelet, “…a time for tearing and a time for sewing; a time for silence and a time for speaking…” and that time is now.
Upon arriving in El Paso and connecting with URJ and RAC staff, clergy, and congregants from our movement from as far away as New York and Boston, it became clear that this was not just a press conference and an opportunity to march in the Texas heat, but to add a moral voice to a policy problem that will become a defining moment in American history. We gathered to learn about non-violent direct action – a euphemism for civil disobedience that might result in arrest. This dominated the conversation for the next couple of hours; will you get arrested? What does your arrest mean in light of this issue? Does it matter? Is being arrested more about you or about the moment and movement? After the training were honored to hear from a number of powerful and important people. Dr. Barber Spoke. Imam Suleiman spoke. Rabbi Jacobs spoke, as did a few other of our leaders. But the most powerful witnessing that first night came from people directly affected by the immigration and asylum problems. There were asylum seekers from Guatemala sharing their ridiculously dangerous and lengthy journey; asylum seekers sent back to Mexico to wait; people who were separated from their parents and children. It was heartbreaking to hear their firsthand accounts. It was liberating to hear their words without commentary, derision or spin. It was maddening to know this is happening in our country, in my state, right in front of me.
The
next day was the day we would make our way through the heat to the detention
center. We learned that non-violent
direct action and getting arrested would make the work of the local support
systems for immigrants and seekers more difficult. Instead the hundreds assembled would march to
the entrance of the detention center and as clergy gathered toward the front,
make numerous demands; to pastor to those detained, the end of inhumane
conditions at the detention centers, end of family separations, end to the wait
in Mexico asylum process. Of course we
were not let in, but as Dr. Barber said, “We condemn and
call evil and unjust the caging of people, the making people drink from
toilets, the refusal to even give them a toothbrush. You’re holding angels in
this place. But you will not hold them forever. We join them now, and not only
do we bring condemnation, but we bring hope. It doesn’t have to be this way.
America, turn around. America, repent. America, stop. America, change your
ways.”
Seeing is believing and indeed I do believe I saw.
— Rabbi Andrew Marc Paley serves Temple Shalom in Dallas, Texas.
“Somebody’s hurting our people and it’s gone on far too
long, and we won’t be silent anymore…”
Songs of protest such as this permeated
the two days in El Paso this week when faith leaders and people of conscience,
including several rabbinic colleagues and cantors, came together in support of Moral Mondays at
the Borderlands. Hundreds from across the country answered the call from
Reverend William Barber II, Rabbi Rick Jacobs, Imam Omar Suleiman and other
leading clergy to come witness and peacefully protest the inhumane, immoral,
and unjust detention and caging of individuals seeking asylum and refuge in our
country, adults and children, countless of whom are still separated from
parents (the practice tragically persists according to news outlets on 7/31).
A spirited assembly Sunday evening
illustrated the incredible diversity of the group who made the journey; participants
reflected every religious tradition, race, ethnicity, sexual identity, and
gender orientation. The powerful evening was marked by song, impassioned charges
from leading clergy and organizers, the testimonies of former refugees now
working with the Border Network for Human Rights
to support individuals presently detained, among other memorable moments.
When we came together again Monday
morning, Reverend Barber delivered a stirring message in which he tenderly described
the love and care with which he attends to the needs of his German Shepherd
puppies – providing them special food and treats, bathing them, giving them constant
affection and attention. Then with a dramatic shift in tone, Barber thundered
the painful and tragic reality that in our country at present, we treat our
dogs better than we do fellow human beings, individuals seeking refuge in
the hopes of a new home and life. Minutes
after departing the church, we reassembled in a large lot in view of the El
Paso DHS detention center. Protest signs
in hand, we marched alongside the street en route to the center, the repeated
honking of passersby indicating their support, until we reached the closed gates
of the detention center. There, Rick Jacobs
and others prayerfully requested that clergy be allowed to enter the grounds to
offer spiritual and pastoral support to the detainees. Unsurprisingly, the
pleas went unheard by the Border Patrol agents, but with numerous media outlets
covering and recording our presence, we still departed the grounds feeling
confident about the impact of our collective voices and presence. We departed the formal protest appreciating
fully that for justice to be realized, our ongoing efforts to bring national
attention to the crisis of inhumanity at our border must continue.
Since returning home to Atlanta, a
few questions and observations about the time in El Paso have persisted. Among
them is one glaring recognition – likely evident in video footage and photos of
the gathering – that some of our justice efforts will result in a dais shared with
individuals and/or organizations whose virulent views about Israel, for
example, are antithetical to everything we believe and hold dear. Though not a
new challenge or realization, the situation at the border reminds us yet again that
there are times when our abiding need to confront serious and unconscionable injustice
necessitates the capacity to set aside deep-seated conflicts regarding one matter
in order to marshal energy and efforts for the sake of another cause.
For several participants, the trip
to El Paso also raised questions about how to measure the efficacy of such actions.
Acknowledging the not-insignificant investment of time and financial resources
needed to participate, it begs the question as to whether there might be better
or more impactful uses of both. For example, would directing the same dollars
to the campaign of a candidate who could potentially help to legislate change be
a better use of limited resources? No doubt this question invites debate, but I
think it is honestly a bit of a conundrum, with an answers that will likely vary,
even for the same individual. Each of us
must determine whether investing financial resources in potential, systemic
change or utilizing those same dollars to enable one’s physical and emotional
presence in a place of brokenness and pain holds sway. Obviously both can make
a profound and lasting difference in people’s lives, bringing into sharp focus
yet again why the efforts of the RAC and other agencies that facilitate both
expressions of support simultaneously are so critical.
The desperate plight of fellow human beings, adults and children currently held in deplorable detention centers in the name of our country, is urgently calling us to action. The ICE raids evoking terror in cities throughout the south, adding to the trauma of separating parents from children, calls us to action. The current policy mandating that all who are seeking asylum remain in Mexico, in violent communities where their lives are endangered, calls us to action. And the fact that we are part of a faith tradition and sacred spiritual heritage which commands us – more often than any other mitzvah — to care for the stranger…the migrant, the refugee, the asylum seeker, and the immigrant in our midst, calls us to action. The need for action and justice is undeniable, because “Somebody’s hurting our people and it’s gone on far too long, and we won’t – we simply can’t – be silent anymore!”
— Rabbi Ron Segal serves Temple Sinai in Atlanta, Georgia. He is also the President of the Central Conference of American Rabbis.
Forbes listed Baltimore as one of the “Coolest Cities to Visit.” Nothing earth shattering has changed since that 2018 notice. There has been a lot of focus on the outstanding quality of Baltimore’s medical centers and universities; on our noteworthy and sometimes quirky art museums, our start-ups and our rush of millennials. There is a lot of good to enjoy and experience in Baltimore.
Oh, we assume you have heard about our
challenges. Those have gotten a lot airtime of late. Baltimore shares similar issues with so many
American urban centers, regarding challenges in public education, equal access
to health care, racial and economic disparities, and more. Our great city is struggling to get a handle
on violence, even as it trends down in so much of our country. Yup, our current mayor stepped in when his
predecessor resigned under a cloud. And yes, we are on our fifth police
commissioner in as many years.
We know this sounds like a strange list
when talking about how inviting our city is.
However, Baltimore is inviting precisely because everything in the first
paragraph is true and because our city is actively working to face up to the
realities in the second paragraph.
An explosion of social change efforts confronts
our challenges here. Consider these
home-grown Baltimore initiatives, in their own words:
The Elijah Cummings Youth Program in Israelis an elite two-year leadership fellowship for high school students in Baltimore. They gain first-hand cross-cultural knowledge and skill.
Threadengages underperforming high school students confronting significant barriers outside of the classroom by providing each one with a family of committed volunteers and increased access to community resources.
Center for Urban Families connects fathers to their children, creating opportunities for economic and financial security through work, and providing access to other key interventions and supportive services.
Baltimore Cease FireBy agreeing to sacred weekends without murder, and by receiving the resources needed to help us avoid violent encounters, we all will eventually agree to honor the sacredness of EVERY day and put an end to murder.
These organizations and so many more
are working to address challenges of economic disparity, healthcare access,
educational opportunities, police-community relationships, and so much more.
Baltimore has these kinds of initiatives, just as your community does as well.
As the month of Av approaches, Lamentations’
initial cry of “Alas, Lonely sits the city” recalls words that Stephen Mitchell
places in the mouth of Rabbi Elazar.
“Only words of lament of the destruction of Jerusalem remain. Why
shouldn’t they be given to all the other cities as well?” (Congregation,
Edited by David Rosenberg, 1987, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich Inc, p.385) As words
are spoken about a city with challenges, let us consider the words of that city
and the actions of its citizens. Let
Baltimore be defined primarily by Baltimore and its own efforts at improvement
and progress, imperfect as they may be.
How inviting is Baltimore? Quite inviting… inviting of visitors, of innovation, and of hope.
Sometimes, life’s unexpected surprises are to be found at
arm’s length or, quite literally, around the corner! But I digress…
Earlier this summer, my two younger daughters and I spent a
week in Italy primarily to celebrate my niece’s, their first cousin’s wedding
which took place on beautiful, isola
d’Elba, the Island of Elba.
Before our departure for Napoleon’s once-temporary home, we spent
our first two nights in the bucolic northern Italian town of Crema, my niece’s
husband’s parents ancestral home. Less than an hour and a half’s drive from
Milan, we could not have asked for a more delightful, picturesque town, one
dating back to the 6th century: a veritable maze of narrow,
cobbled-stone streets lined with brightly-painted, flower-bedecked homes;
elegant, private palazzo’s behind ornate, wrought-iron gates and fashionable
boutiques leading to the central “Piazza Duomo,” awash with outdoor restaurants
and cafes.
The plaque on the outside of the Museum.
Crema, however, is not your typical tourist’s destination. On
the contrary; I suspect that very few Americans have ever ventured into the town
but Asians, for example, are now arriving in unprecedented numbers. Why?
Because Crema was chosen as the site for the full-length 2017 award-winning movie
“Call Me by Your Name,” directed by Luca Guadagnino, who just happens to be a
local resident. Imagine my daughters
surprise when they were told that the movie’s two male stars, Timothee Chalamet
and Armie Hammer, also stayed at our charming, six-bedroom B&B on Via Vimercati!
Crema, a town of approximately 34,000, has apparently no
Jewish residents nor are there to be found any synagogue remains. I was told,
however, that a tiny Jewish quarter was once situated directly behind and in
the shadow of the Duomo, the Cathedral, that continues to dominate the main
piazza.
I had asked my wife, Randy, to purchase a National Geographic
map of Italy before our departure. I was interested and curious to know where
we were going to be. Imagine my
surprise when, after finding Crema in the Lombardy region of the country, I
couldn’t help but notice that one of the closest geographical places to Crema
was none other than Soncino! I was astonished;
all I knew was that the village associated with Jewish printing was in Italy
but, to all intents and purposes, it might well have been hundreds of miles
away. On the contrary; it was just around the corner! Literally!
The inscription attesting to the “…word of God from Soncino…” (Sefer Ha’ikkarim, 1485)
I asked my niece’s now father-in-law, Alberto, if he wouldn’t
mind taking my father and I to visit the “Museo della Stampa,” the Printing
Museum which also houses the “Centro Studi Stampatori Ebrei Soncino,” the Soncino
Hebrew Printers’ Study Center. Alberto was only too pleased to help. He promptly
called and was told that the Museum was only open that day for two hours from
10:00am to 12 noon. By then it was already 10:15; we hadn’t a moment to lose! It
was now or never for we were all leaving bright and early the following morning
for the coastal town of Piombino in order to take the ferry over to Elba.
After driving for about 20 minutes through corn fields and
non-descript industrial plants, we duly arrived at 8 Via Lanfranco, a tall, old
brick building dedicated to the history of the printing press but also to
Soncino’s truly unique Jewish
history: it was here, supposedly on the very site where the Museum is now
located, that the world’s very first edition of the Hebrew Bible was printed! Those
of us at all familiar with translated Biblical and Talmudic texts recognize the
unsurpassed quality of the iconic “Soncino Press” printers’ mark (with its
iconic tower probably connected with the neighboring municipality of
Casalmaggiore), universally acknowledged as, arguably, the oldest and most
venerable Jewish printing house in the world.
The Museum at 8 Via Lanfranco, Soncino.
The history of Jewish printing is forever linked with the
village of Soncino (2018 population just over 7,800 including one Jew, Aldo
Villagrossi!) thanks to a Jewish family who, due to anti-Jewish discrimination,
had fled the German city of Speyer, near Mainz. Due to an edict authorized by Francesco
Sforza, the Duke of Milan, Israel Nathan b. Samuel’s family was given
permission to set up a loan business in Soncino in 1454. After some three decades,
the family decided to embark on a new business: that of printing and published
their first work, the Talmudic tractate Berachot, on February 2, 1484. However, the so-called “Familia Soncino,”
(“Sonchino” in Italian) made history when on, April 22, 1488, they printed “…La
Prima Bibbia Ebraica Completa…” the first complete edition of the Hebrew Bible,
with vowels! It should be noted that the Soncino’s printing house was the only
one of its kind in Italy from the last decade of the 15th century to
the first quarter of the 16th century.
The late Gothic-style, tower-like building on Via Lanfranco and
its carefully planned masonry – with inner tough bricks suitable to support the
planking and outer waterproof bricks – together with the larger rooms on the
ground floor and the ogival windows on the upper floors, suggest that it might
well have been the very site of the Soncino’s printing house and home. It was renovated and officially opened in
1988, to mark the quincentennial anniversary of the first complete printing of
the Hebrew Bible. A translation of the marble plaque affixed to the outside
brick wall reads as follows: “This building has been designated as the home of
the Jewish printers who named themselves after the town of Soncino and printed numerous
books in this village from 1483 to 1492 among which was the first complete Hebrew
Bible in 1488. The owner, Dr. Francesco Cerioli, gave it to the local authorities
so that it would become the venue for the study of the Soncino Printers. 22
September 1991.”
A facsimile of the first page of the first printed edition of the Hebrew Bible, April 22, 1488.
I am extremely grateful to Francesca Perotti, the Museum’s
Curator, for the time she spent with us and for her invaluable insight. She
made a freshly-minted copy for me of “Pagina
iniziale della Bibbia stampata aSoncino
il 22 aprile 1488,” the very first page from the very first printed edition
of the Hebrew Bible which just happens to contain Genesis 1:1-14. I couldn’t
help but notice that in addition to the Museum’s own watermark, the lithograph also
includes a parody (in both Hebrew and Italian) of the famous biblical quote
from Isaiah (2:3): “For out of Zion shall go forth the Law and the word of God
from…Soncino!!”
While my visit to Sunsi (as it’s known locally) was all too short,
it was truly memorable! Who knew that just down the road from nearby Crema, in
a remote corner of what was once the Jewish quarter of a small Lombardy
village, the very first edition of the Hebrew Bible was printed over 531 years
ago!
— Rabbi Robert S. Leib serves Old York Road Temple-Beth Am in Abington, PA.
On July 20,
1969 at 10:56 PM as a boy one week shy of his 11th birthday, and
filled with wonder, I watched Neil Armstrong take “one small step for man, one
giant leap for mankind.”
In 1999, as the
century was ending, the eminent historian Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. was asked to
name the most significant human achievement of the 20th century. In
ranking the events, Schlesinger said, “I put DNA and penicillin and the
computer and the microchip in the first ten because they’ve transformed
civilization. But in 500 years, if the United States still exists, most of its
history will have faded to invisibility… The one thing that for which this
century will be remembered 500 years from now was: This was the century when we
began the exploration of space.”
How, then, should
we appreciate and celebrate this epic milestone in the history of our species?
This summer the
Smithsonian published a piece by Charles Fishman called, Inside America’s Greatest Adventure – A New Behind-the Scenes View of
Apollo 11’s Unlikely Triumph 50 Years Ago, an excerpt from his new book One Giant Leap: The Impossible Mission That
Flew Us to the Moon. Fishman acknowledges that many Americans questioned
why we were going to the moon when we couldn’t handle our problems on Earth. He
admits how much of the space race was caught up in Cold War politics. But Fishman goes on to say: “When President
John F. Kennedy declared in 1961 that the United States would go to the Moon,
he was committing the nation to do something we simply couldn’t do. We didn’t
have the tools or the equipment- the rockets or the launch pads; the spacesuits
or the computers….We didn’t even know how to fly to the Moon….Ten thousand
problems had to be solved to get us to the Moon. Every one of those challenges
was tackled and mastered between May 1961 and July 1969.”
For many, Apollo restored our faith that America
could think big. It restored our faith that we could tackle great problems. It
restored our faith that we could work together.
When Armstrong
stepped on the moon, billions watched and cheered across the world- the largest
TV audience in history. For a fleeting moment Apollo united a country divided
over Vietnam, and civil rights, and nuclear disarmament. For a fleeting moment
Apollo united the world.
But there is
something else that Apollo bequeathed to us. On Apollo 8 astronaut Bill Anders
took what is one of the most famous pictures of all time, the photo of the
Earth floating in space above the moon. It was the first full-color photo of
the Earth from space, later entitled Earthrise.
This single, sensational image is credited with helping inspire the modern
environmental movement.
What strikes you
right away is color. There is our planet, a brilliant sphere of blue and white,
in a sea of utter black. Nearly a half century ago pioneering astronomer Fred Hoyle
uttered these prophetic words: “Once a photograph of the earth, taken from the
outside is available… a new idea as powerful as any in history will be let
loose.”
Astronaut Loren
Action said, “Looking outward to the blackness of space, I saw majesty but no
welcome. Below us was a welcoming planet. There, contained in the thin, moving,
incredibly fragile shell of the biosphere is everything that is dear to [us]….”
Astronaut Sultan
bin Salman may have put it best when he said, “The first day or so we all
pointed to our countries “The third or fourth day we were pointing to our
continents. By the fifth day we were aware of only one earth.”
What these modern
day explorers are telling us is a truth at once ancient, but radically new. Something
we have always known, but never really understood. We are one earth. We are one
planet. We are one world. We are incredibly diverse but utterly
inter-dependent.
I consider this not just the environmental, but the ultimate spiritual legacy
of Apollo. We took one giant leap in our understanding of our own home- we need
to work together in so many ways to cherish it and protect it.
Someday we will
populate the solar system and beyond…that is also Apollo’s legacy. Yet even as we
reach for the stars we are still tethered to our earth home like a new born
babe to its mother.
On this 50th anniversary of our greatest adventure- thank you to Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins; to those who walked on the moon, and to those who walked behind them to make it possible, and after them to build on their accomplishment. Thank you for showing us a new world. Thank you for our greater appreciation of our own world. Thank you for showing us what is possible when we dream. Thank you for showing us the dawn of our collective future.
— Rabbi Barry L. Schwartz serves Congregation Adas Emuno in Leonia, New Jersey.
Isadore Finkelstein z”l taught me how to pray. I was a youth. He was
ancient and timeless. My very best Shabbat mornings in synagogue as a teen as occurred
when I sat near him.
Mr. Finkelstein didn’t teach me the words of the prayers. He didn’t
teach me the halachot – the legal structure – of prayer. He didn’t teach
me the stories of the siddur, our prayer book. In fact, he never once
instructed me in t’fillah. I learned how to pray by watching him, by
listening to him, by feeling his prayer.
Born in 1894 in Bogoria, Poland, Mr. Finkelstein brought to his prayers
an old-world yearning for God and a deep passion for the Jewish people. From
Mr. Finkelstein I learned how prayer sounds, both in the ear and in the heart.
From him I learned how to move in prayer, both the physical motions and the
spiritual choreography. From him I learned how prayer connects heaven to earth,
how prayer connects God to humanity.
Here’s the secret to learning how to pray: sit next to someone whose
heart is filled with the love of God. Then listen. Your prayers will never be
the same. Listen to how that voice shines, listen to the sparkling moments of
love, the harmonies of hope, the undertones of grief, the hints of shofar resonant
in that voice ready to pierce the highest heavens, and the yearning for a
better world. You are climbing the mountain to Sinai. You are are carrying the
Ark of the Covenant. You are witnessing miracles.
All you need to do is to find an Isadore Finkelstein. Sit nearby and listen
with your inner, most vulnerable, open, heart-centered being. Then, go to a
classroom, to a book or to a beit midrash to learn the details. There, the deep
indescribable experience of prayer will meet the fountain of wisdom that is our
siddur.
This is a paradox. The inner life of prayer – the indescribable,
ineffable essence of prayer – is strengthened by our knowledge of the words
themselves, their history, the intention behind them, the classic understandings,
the new interpretations, the seasonal rhythms, and the thinking that called
these prayers into being. That knowledge, however, gets prayer exactly nowhere
without a heart, without a soul, without the deepest desire to do God’s will.
Not one bit of prayer ‘book learning’ has, by itself, ascended to the gates of
mercy.
The problem for Jewish educators is that no classroom learning – no
matter how it is presented or disguised – will substitute for the experience of
hearing and praying next to an Isadore Finkelstein. If the experience in the synagogue
is flat and uninspiring, no amount of study will make up for it. The Beit
Kenesset must pulse with love and the worship of God.
Traditional worship is often long on technique and short of God. The prayers
exquisitely follow the Siddur and the rules, but there isn’t enough
‘Finkelstein.’ Liberal worship is often long on spirit and short of God. The
prayers are beautifully sung and enjoyed, but there isn’t enough ‘Finkelstein.’
A technically perfect service is not necessarily prayer. Neither is a joyously
sung nor a wondrously inspired service.
The ongoing conversation about how to teach and inspire prayer will
simply vanish when enough people aspire to become Finkelsteins, masters of t’fillah,
fountains of devotion in articulating prayer.
We don’t have enough masters of prayer to station one strategically at
every synagogue, temple, shul, Hebrew school, day school and beit midrash. We
don’t have enough Finkelsteins to go around. My hunch is that the Jewish
centers that are thriving in robust prayer are attracting – or were created by
– modern-day Finkelsteins, davening masters, lovers of the art and the act of
yearning for heaven through prayer.
Jewish prayer masters pray from the most secret, sacred place within themselves. They pray a uniquely personal combination of prayers of the heart and traditional liturgy, in community with others, with the desire to be in conversation with God. They bring a deep understanding of the Siddur, and the desire to deepen that understanding. They are unconventional traditionalists, speaking the inner voice of prayer. This is not as daunting a task as it sounds. All it takes is a willingness to learn and a commitment to pray.
Some
say there is a distinction for some between being an author and being a
writer–authors write books and writers, write.
Many of us, who serve as clergy in congregational and communal settings,
especially at this season of the year, strive to resist being authors of sermons, articles or blogs
and focus instead on being writers
rabbis and teachers and leaders writing from our experiences about the issues
and topics that touch us and trouble us, hoping to find the words that will
open our own hearts and those who we serve, to do the sacred work of teshuvah.
For
several years I used my writing practice
at this season to explore the words of Psalm 27, verse by verse and phrase by
phrase and my reflections were recently published as a book, technically makes
me an author, but in my soul and practice I remain a writer. But as Elul approaches I find myself in need
of a reminder, of what to do, how to begin writing that will open my heart on
each of these 50 sacred days that will lead from Elul to Rosh Hashanah, Yom
Kippur, Sukkot and finally to the joy of Simchat Torah.
This excerpt from the introduction and invitation of my book, Opening Your Heart with Psalm 27 is as much about the daily practice it encourages as the work of writing that the season demands of clergy. It serves as a reminder to me of how to get started and I hope will encourage you as well.
Following
the practice of my writing coach from nearly twenty years ago, with a more
recent endorsement from John Grisham, I try to write in the same place, at the
same time, every day. This builds muscle memory. “Ah yes,” my body says, “I sat
in this chair, at this table, facing
this
window, this wall, in this room, and I know what to do here.” The light is
different, the temperature is different, the material, the fragment for focus
is different. I am different today, but this time and this place are the same,
and I know what to do here: I write.
I
also need a clear uncluttered space in which to write, to limit my distractions
(which I highly recommend even if you think all the stuff doesn’t bother you).
Billy Collins says it perfectly in his poem “Advice to Writers”:
Clean
the space as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness
is the niece of inspiration.
I’m
not expecting the Pope, but am hopeful that I might encounter something
holy—maybe God’s presence will alight on the desk or wrap itself around me or
inspire me for just an instant in these five minutes. And so I prepare to experience Collins’s
words:
You will behold in the light of dawn the immaculate altar of your desk, a clean surface in the middle of a clean world. What better way to welcome God’s presence, to encourage it to join me for even an instant of inspiration.
I
know it seems almost counter-intuitive to train oneself to write by writing,
but as Mary Daly teaches, just as “we learn courage by couraging” we learn to
write by writing. And so the practices
of Opening the Heart with Psalm 27
are not only for lay people to use 50 days a year, they are for us, rabbis who
are writers, at this season and in our souls, people who write not only to
motivate others but to open our own hearts.
And so this last bit of advice for myself, and perhaps for you my
colleagues as well, also from the introduction and invitation (page xviii):
Writers,
like athletes and musicians, have rituals that help them succeed at their work.
While these rituals may seem to be quirky or repetitive, the routine is often
transformed into a spiritual practice. Just as we can train the muscles of the
hand to write, we can train the muscles of the heart to reflect, to create, and
to connect with emotions, experiences, memories, hope, ourselves, and yes, God.
Opening Your Heart with Psalm 27 is a
way to begin the training.
— Rabbi Debra J. Robbins has served Temple Emanu-El in Dallas since 1991 and currently works closely with the Social Justice and Adult Jewish Learning Councils, the Pastoral Care department, a variety of Worship initiatives, and teaches classes for adults. She is the author of Opening Your Heart with Psalm 27: A Spiritual Practice for the Jewish New Year, published by CCAR Press.
