Tag: Remembrance

Categories
Death Healing Mishkan haNefesh

You Turn my Mourning Into Dancing

Yizkor on Yom Kippur is … not about human frailty or the futility of human endeavors. Yizkor on Yom Kippur is about the power of others to affect us, about our power to affect others, about the power of the dead and the living to continue to affect each other. Yizkor on Yom Kippur is … not simply about remembering the dead, by about attempting to effect change in our relationships with the dead and thus to effect change in ourselves and in our relationships with those who are still among the living.

(Rabbi Margaret Moers Wenig, in the CCAR Draft machzor, forthcoming 2015, Mishkan haNefesh, Yizkor service)

I’ve missed a number of days of Elul to blog because my father-in-law died last Wednesday. After his funeral in Florida on Friday morning, my wife and her sister returned to sit shiva at our home in Massachusetts. What happened over those days was a reflection of how love, healing, and change are truly what the rituals of remembrance are about and enable us to do. For those who joined us for multiple nights of shiva, the change that occurred over those days as memories and reflections were shared was quite evident and powerful for many.

Without sharing the specifics here, the journey we took was one that first confronted the past, and acknowledged the challenge of engaging with memory in the face of difficult relationships. Yet, with the honesty of needing to acknowledge the challenges, the blessings that emerged from those life experiences were also evident.  On the following night, more family members gathered and a broader range of perspectives and memories were shared. There were many moments of laughter. There was a release – the laughter not only lifted the weight of some of the challenging memories but also opened up the banks of memories that were positive and powerful. And so, by the third night, new stories had been laid bare and had risen to the surface. There were words of forgiveness, acceptance, and love.  By the fourth night, in a beautiful, spontaneous sharing and connecting of memories and reflections connected to the words of specific prayers as we davenned (prayed) the ma’ariv (evening) service, there was a sense of completeness. We were speaking of a life lived, and memories that we carry with us, but embedded into the heart of the tefilot that were so much a part of Mordecai’s being that, when advanced dementia had taken almost all else from him, davenning was the only activity that he could still do, in short bouts.

In the forthcoming CCAR machzor, Mishkan HaNefesh, we find a version of precisely how we did our remembrances on the last night of shiva.  We are offered 7 paths, where readings, psalms and reflective texts are woven around the 7 thematic blessings of the Tefilah, or Amidah prayer, the central prayer of our Shabbat and Festival liturgy.  There is an abundance of material – many, many years worth of exploration and contemplation. There is a clear recognition that everyone remembers differently. There are ways to remember children who died too young. There is a prayer in memory of a parent who was hurtful. There are words to remember one who died violently. There are words to remember dearly beloved ones. And so many more.

As we return to Yizkor, year after year, we do not necessarily have to engage in the memories in the same way. With the passage of time and the ways we remember, may we, as invited by Rabbi Wenig in the reflection above, find the possibility to change our relationships with the dead and thus effect change in ourselves and in our relationships with those who are still among the living.

Rabbi Rachel Gurevitz serves Congregation Congregation B’nai Shalom in Westborough, MA. She dedicates this blog post to the memory of Mordecai Lavow, her father-in-law.

 

Categories
Social Justice

Remembering September 11th

Every day this month, prior to the Jewish High Holy Days, Jews will sound the Shofar, the rams horn, to herald the coming of the Days of Judgement and Atonement. One of the reasons given for the call of the shofar is to remind us of the eternal voiceless cry of the soul.

This thirteenth anniversary of September 11th and the symbolism of the shofar are expressed by this soulful prayer for our time of remembrance this Thursday:

*May the cry of the shofar remind us of the 2,973 lives that were taken that day. May the shofar’s sound echo like the sirens of the firefighters. police officers and first responders whose heroic sacrifices were extraordinary on that day.

*May the shofar’s plaintiff call remind us how fleeting and fragile this life is.

*May the voice of the shofar serve to comfort all who were wounded in body and spirit; those who lost loved ones and friends, and all whose hearts were broken by witnessing the pain of others.

*On this 13th anniversary, may the blast of the shofar drown out the shouts of cruel extremists who threaten us and who would destroy our lives and our freedom.

*On this 13th anniversary, and every day yet to come, may we find hope and strength in a world that is broken and needs healing. And let us pray that all caring and compassionate human beings will not surrender to evil and will summon the courage to repair our fractured world.

And let the shofar be like a siren that alerts us to danger and summons us to act.

May there come a day when we, and our children, and our children’s children, will live unafraid in a more tolerant, just, and peaceful world.

Rabbi Hirshel Jaffe has lived a courageous life of involvement and dedication. He led a Unity March against the Ku Klux Klan, rallied to free Soviet Jews, and was a member of the Clergy Delegation who visited the American Hostages in Iran. His participation in the New York City Marathon earned him the nickname, “The Running Rabbi.”

Categories
Rabbis Reform Judaism Social Justice

What’s wrong with ethnic jokes?

When I was an undergraduate, I spent a semester abroad in Germany. I was there, of course, to learn German: that was the express purpose of the trip. But I also had felt a need to go there to find out whether Germans were a different kind of people. I wanted to see if there was some kind of obvious reason for the Holocaust.

And what I found was that Germans are not particularly different. The German university students I met were much like the students I met in the U.S. Maybe they were a little more focused, on the account of the fact that they were older. The German university system is organized a bit differently than ours. But otherwise they were thoroughly normal. You might even say: depressingly so.

The Holocaust would be easier to fathom if the Germans appeared to be a different kind of human, wholly unlike us.

While I was living there, I hung out with a group of students from a diverse list of nations: some Americans, a Spaniard, some Brits, and a German. One night we’d had dinner together and were hanging out in the dorm kitchen telling jokes in English. And so one of the students made a tasteless ethnic joke, the kind of joke that starts: “A Jew, a Frenchman and an Arab…”

So he told the joke and almost everyone laughed — or at least groaned — except for Bernd, the German man in our group. He was very quiet, and very still. Thinking that Bernd did not understand the joke – for humor is indeed difficult to translate – the joke-teller proceeded to tell the joke again. This time, Bernd slammed his fist down on the table: “I understood it the first time.”

We were stunned: where was his anger coming from?

He calmed himself and explained: “In Germany, we have a saying. Asylanten, as you know, are asylum-seekers, refugees. Ausländer are foreigners. And a Witz is a joke. So this is the saying: Asylantenwitz… Ausländerwitz… Auschwitz.”

I learned something that day.

Words matter. The names we use when we talk about each other matter. Our jokes matter. We should be careful not to hurt one another, and careful to avoid marginalizing each other.

There is, as you know, a backlash in this country to the whole concept of ‘political correctness.’ It has become popular to express disdain for those who would ask that we modify our language. Political correctness is perceived as a form of whiny victimhood.

But I disagree. To the contrary: I think, for example, that the Redskins should change their name, in deference to the repeated requests by Native American groups, because ‘Redskin’ is not meant as a compliment.

I object to the Redskin name for the same reason I object to the misuse of Holocaust imagery. I object to the Redskin name for the same reason I object to ethnic jokes.

Atrocities happen in places where it is acceptable to marginalize the other. If you can joke about a group as being stupid, foolish, or undeserving, they will be treated as such. Yes, there is a major difference between naming your sports team after an ethnic slur and committing atrocities on the basis of that slur. But, as the German example shows, it’s nonetheless entirely too close for comfort.

In other words, when it comes to hurting others, I really don’t have much of a sense of humor. We can and should do better.

On this Shabbat before Yom Hashoah, I’d like to share with you the reflection I delivered at the Days of Remembrance program in the Feinberg Library at SUNY Plattsburgh:

We approach the enormity of the Holocaust with a sense of rupture. We have this sense of rupture because the Holocaust alters our view of what can possibly happen.

Even a nation as cultured as Germany can descend into brutality, and even a people as acculturated as the German Jews can be targeted for genocide.

In confronting the Holocaust, then, we find that we have to let go of the sense that culture will serve as a brake against the worst in human nature.

Speaking from the Jewish perspective, I can tell you this: the Holocaust has forced us to reconsider our theology and worldview. What is and is not preventable? What can and cannot happen? What might we reasonably expect from God?

On the other hand, I also can tell you this: the Holocaust is not the first time that we have had to reconsider our God-concept in the face of tragedy. The destruction of the Second Temple, for example, created a similar difficulty of how to relate to God in the absence of the Temple cult.

In that context, the question was not merely the ritual problem but also a theological problem: won’t the world come apart if the sacrifices are not offered on time and in the right manner?

And the answer is no. The world won’t come apart if we don’t offer the sacrifices on time and in the right manner. The world shrugs and continues, even after tragedy, and the sun dawns again.

Yet we simply cannot abandon the project. We cannot leave the past in a clean break without finding points of continuity. We are still very much a part and product of our world. We must mourn and we must build again.

So, in the wake of the Holocaust, that means that we live with the awareness that our narrow range of experience does not predict the full range of what is possible. Humans are infinitely clever.

In the negative sense, that awareness means that we must acknowledge that the world can slip into unimaginable brutality in the course of a generation. Let me say that again: the world can slip into unimaginable brutality in the course of a generation.

In the positive sense, however, the reverse is also true.

What is needed, therefore, is a cautious but tenacious idealism: we should not let what ‘is’ eclipse the view of what ‘ought’ to be.

Blessed is the Lord, our God, who gives us the power to transcend ourselves.

Rabbi Kari Tuling is the rabbi of Temple Beth Israel, in Plattsburgh, NY. This was originally published on her blog, Godtalk: Judaism as a Theological Adventure.

Categories
Ethics General CCAR News Prayer Rabbis Reform Judaism

Reflections of Remembrance and Healing from Boston

An unbelievably short time ago, on Friday, April 12th, I and members of our Central Reform Temple family were completing our ten day pilgrimage and study mission in Israel.

On that day, we were in Jerusalem, as preparations for the weekly celebration of the Sabbath were unfolding. In a palpable sense of cessation and anticipation unique to that holy city, the arrival of Shabbat is viscerally felt. Beginning at noon, the usually bustling streets almost magically become quiet and deserted…the traffic on the highways disappears…storefronts are shuttered… and a quiet peace descends upon the city as the golden hues of the sun begin to fade, ushering in the sacred day of prayer and rest.

Our group of Bostonians had experienced a week of intense emotion and inspiration, mixed with clear, unvarnished confrontations with the complex challenges , the tensions and pressures, encompassed in this “City of Peace” that has seen so much conflict. And yet, in the midst of the renewed threats coming from rocket attacks from the Syrian border during our visit, we all felt safe and secure. We reached that final day of our stay filled with gratitude that the peace of the Sabbath had indeed embraced us throughout our week in Israel.

One week later…to the very hour…  at noon this past Friday, April 19th, the exact same scene of deserted streets and shuttered stores was replicated here in Boston. But this was not a sign of the arrival of the Sabbath peace.  It was the fearful and anxiety-filled unfolding of the final chapter of the tragedy that has engulfed all of us over the past few days. The dramatic irony was overwhelming for those of us who had just returned from 10 safe and peaceful days in the world’s most volatile and dangerous region – only to face terrorism here in our own city.

Even articulating these words, “terrorism in Boston”- seems surreal and unimaginable. At this moment, not even one week after the horror that changed all of our lives, it still seems impossible that all of this could have really happened…

And yet – it did happen – and the terrible reality is a gaping would in our minds and hearts. Once again, we have experienced a transforming “where were you when” moment in our lives – a day, a week that none of us will ever forget… and many of our neighbors will continue to painfully relive daily for the rest of their lives.

Coming together for a Service of Remembrance and Healing, in shared support and loving friendship, cannot but bring to mind the other times of national tragedy that we have endured together over the years. The emotions of the past few days have brought back so many echoes of Oklahoma City…of September 11th…of Newtown. And as with so many historic events of our rime, we all experienced the dramatic developments of this past week in real time – either at the very location of the tragedy, within a few short blocks of this very place… or glued to our television screens or computer monitors. It has been a week of powerful visual images that are seared into our consciousness. And it has also been an unending flow of words…the breathless updates of reporters… the commentary of pundits and experts… the truly inspiring and comforting messages of our local and national leaders.

We have heard the reflections of various religious representatives – some conventionally parochial and others genuinely moving, healing and prophetic, reaching out to embrace all of us…

And we have also been challenged and encouraged by the very powerful messages of our civic leaders- the dogged determination of Mayor Menino… the clear vision and strong leadership of Governor Patrick…and, once again, the rich imagery and soaring eloquence of President Obama. Their words of hope and confidence, their messages of compassion for the families of the dead and those who were  injured, their praise for the courage of the first responders and for the generosity of spirit that poured forth from the people of Boston, were all enormously helpful and healing for all of us. So much so, that perhaps too many more words, beyond those of prayer and song, may indeed be excessive and presumptuous at this time.

Just being able to come together…just having been able to leave our homes and arrive here safely… just being able to be together- after a harrowing week of fear and isolation –this is enough of a message for this moment… as are the emotions that cannot be expressed by the further multiplication of words and attempts at wisdom. The human stories of courage and selflessness that will continue to emerge will be the most eloquent sermons.  And so, I will not speak too many more words this morning. The wisdom has already been imparted… the stirring messages and challenges have already been spoken.

So let me share just a few impressions that remain in the forefront of my consciousness. I hope that they might reflect many of your own feelings and thoughts, and perhaps help you to process the deep emotions we have all been confronting over the past few days.

I am thinking of the tearful encounters with the Marathon runners I spoke with on Tuesday, right after the attack, when I and my fellow Back Bay clergy colleagues took to the streets to meet with and offer support for the throngs of shell-shocked visitors who were still out following the violent end of the race. I spoke with people from Minneapolis, Washington DC, and Utah. In the midst of their own trauma, each of them wanted to thank the people of this great and beautiful city. They vowed to return – both to visit and to run again.  And I could not help but think that perhaps the conventional, clichéd images of Boston – perpetuated by lurid Southie mobster movies and Saturday Night Live skits  might finally melt away… and once again we could reclaim our role as the “City on the Hill”… a place of learning and creativity… the cradle of liberty. Not only the home of the Red Socks, Celtics and Bruins, but the very essence of the ”Spirit of America.”

Another impression I come away with this week is of the countless messages that I- and I’m sure, each of you- received from so many friends and even distant acquaintances, from around the world. Emails, Facebook posts and phone calls, all expressing deep concern and sharing their sadness for what we were going through here in Boston. These genuine human connections were so helpful and encouraging for all of us- and I hope that such personal ties of sensitivity and support will remain one of the many positive things that may come out of this difficult time.

Another visual image that remains in my consciousness… as we were all sitting in front of our TV screens on Friday evening, breathlessly watching the drama of the capture in Watertown, I wonder if some of you may have also noticed something at once incongruous and yet so overwhelmingly powerful about the scene. In the midst of the wall of police vehicles and SWAT trucks, and the crowds of heavily armed troops converging on the street where the fugitive suspect was being apprehended, there stood- at the very center of the  television camera’s view – the most beautiful azalea tree and budding forsythia bushes…

I hope that it does not sound trite that in the unbearable anxiety of those moments, when a final suicide explosion could well have detonated and taken more lives before our very eyes – I felt the need to focus my attention on those beautiful signs of life…of calm…of the eternal hope of rebirth and renewal of this season. There was something about the brilliant colors of the pink and yellow blossoms, in the midst of the blazing police lights and the fearful events being played out before us, that somehow gave me hope that this nightmare would end…

And one final impression… later that Sabbath Eve, when the drama had concluded, I reflected once again back on the previous week, in Jerusalem. I felt deeply that Boston had also emerged as a Holy City. Prevented by the emergency from gathering with our congregation in worship that night, I closed my eyes and sensed that God had indeed been with us throughout this painful week.  The selfless courage, the boundless compassion, the determination and resilience, the shared prayers, were all signs of the Divine Presence in our midst.  Many surely questioned where God was in the brutal deaths of a smiling gap-toothed little boy and two lovely young women, who had come to be part of a time of happy gathering of our community. And we know that indeed, God was with us… in the pain and sorrow, and in the nobility of our collective response to the pain and sorrow.

The Boston Globe columnist, Juliette Kayyem, in an insightful reflection a few days ago on the challenge we now face to carry on and move forward, began her essay with a surprising and obscure quote from- of all people- my old Seminary professor, Rabbi Stanley Chyet. I have no idea where she found this passage, which I had never heard. Having known him well- as both a Jewish historian and a gifted poet, I was so moved by this unexpected encounter with the memory of my old friend and teacher. These words offer us a fitting message as we resolve to begin the healing of our beloved city…

We ought not pray for what we have never known:

Unbroken peace…unmixed blessing…

No.

Better to pray for the will to see and touch…

The power to do good…and to make new.

 

To which we say… Amen!

Rabbi Howard Berman A. Berman is Founding Rabbi of Central Reform Temple, two blocks from the bomb site. He is also Rabbi Emeritus of Chicago Sinai Congregation, and the Executive Director of the Society for Classical Reform Judaism.  These words are adapted from a sermon delivered after the tragedy in Boston.  

Categories
General CCAR News Prayer Rabbis Reform Judaism

I Am the Glass: A Reading for Yom HaShoah

Unknown-1I am the glass

Once clear, smooth, perfect.
Protecting the store, the home,
the eyes.

I am the glass.
Shattered now, broken, sharp,
dangerous.

I am the book.
Once a source of peoplehood,
philosophy and learning.
Inspiring the spirit, the mind,
the person.

I am the book.
Burning now in a flame of hate.
A precursor to the fate of a
community.

I am the synagogue.
Once the house of learning,
the house of prayer, the house of
gathering.

I am the synagogue.
Aflame now, the end of
an era of safety in Europe.

I am the rabbi.
Once a teacher, a leader,
a dignified transmitter of Torah.

I am the rabbi.
Humiliated now on the streets
of Germany.

Forced to choose between
desecrating the Torah
and surviving the night.

I am the child.
Once carefree and innocent,
Laughing, playing, free.

I am the child.
Terrified now as they take
my father away
Shaken by an evil in this night.

I am the glass.
Repaired now by a People
that will never give in.
A window into a future of hope,
of goodness and peace.

I am the glass.

Rabbi Karen Bender is at Temple Judea in Tarzana, CA.