A Holy Story

I cannot speak or write about the things I experience with community or congregational members because it crosses the borders of confidentiality.  Every now and then there is an exception:

It was a small dark colored car.  Four door.  Kind of old and battered.

It is hard to see inside the windows of a car, even from a short distance.  I knew that someone must be sitting in the car because of its position outside the main sanctuary.  I waved, not knowing whether the people inside saw or acknowledged me.

Opening the door to the sanctuary I motioned to the blank window and yelled,”Do you want to come in?”  The door cracked open and three people climbed out, two from the front and one from the back.

They introduced themselves to me as newcomers to town from Texas.  Then the man pointed to the younger man and told me that this was his son who is in training at Ft Jackson, the military base.

The three of them davenned with the congregation in the chapel that Friday evening.  The father knew his prayers well and sang them loudly, so loudly that he forced me to change one of my tunes so that I would be in sync with him.

Services ended with Yigdal and after a few hand-shakes and embraces I made my way over to the trio and asked how long the young man was going to be here in Columbia at the Ft Jackson.  “He’s leaving tomorrow,” said the father. 

“To Afghanistan,” added his wife.

I nodded. 

“Come with me,” I pulled the three of them over to the Aron HaKodesh, the Holy Ark, after the last member had exited.  “Stand here.” 

I opened the Ark, held the young soldier’s hand and prayed: “Avinu Shebashamayim, Lord of Heaven, I am here with Your child who is off to a distant land tomorrow.  Look after him. Guard his steps.  Be with his officers to protect them and protect one another.

“Let him serve his duty with dignity and grace and bring him back home to his family whole.”

Tears trickled down this soldier’s cheeks. Everyone is human.

The father placed his hands on his son’s head and bensched him with the Priestly Blessing.

Tikkun Olam

We are the people who share stories.  The Bible is full of them.  That Talmud too has many tales as does the famed midrash.  I remember once hearing Elie Wiesel tell how even the Master of the Universe not only like to tell stories but He also delights in hearing them!  Stories entertain and enlighten.  The best stories have the richest, most meaningful morals.  Here is one:

Ashmodai was the king of demons.  He brought before the great Solomon a man with two heads.  Ashmodai told King Solomon that the man’s father had died and left a large inheritance.  It was up to the wise king to determine whether the man in front of him was one man with one share of the inheritance or if he should be counted as two men and receive a double portion.

King Solomon reflected and then said that servants should prepare a pot of boiling water.  That boiling water would be poured over one of the heads.  If the other head did not complain, it was a sign that they were different people.  On the other hand, if the other head did complain they were really one.

The story entertains, as do all good stories but it also teaches a truth.  We are one.

There are times when family members do not get along.  We argue, insist on having it our way, and say regrettable things.  When rifts happen in a family the depth of the pain is significant.  It hurts.  A lot.

Still, the bonds of a family do not go away when we fight.  We quickly regroup when some outside force assails us or illness strikes.  So it is with our extended family.  We are one.

Elsewhere the midrash asks, “Would a man cut off his arm?  Of course not!  Why then would we ever contemplate hurting one of our own?  They are part of our body too!”

What affects one of us affects us all.  That is why we must stand together.  If any part of our people is abused or destroyed it destroys a part of us.  That is why when one Jew is in peril the response must be immediate.  We learned this lesson during the Holocaust.   While our people vacillated, we were murdered.  Israel’s response to the plight of Ethiopian Jews was sweeping.  In 1984 Operation Moses airlifted more than 8,000 Jews to Israel.  A single trip brought 1,122 Ethiopian Jews on a single plane.  A world record!  Three decades earlier Operation Magic Carpet brought nearly 50,000 Yemeni Jews to the Holy Land.  Waves of Russian Jews – 800,000 of them! - arrived with no questions.

What all this means is that we are our brother’s keeper.  We have a responsibility for one another.

Here is our community no Jew is ever turned away from the Religious School or membership for lack of funds.  In addition, tzedaka is ongoing.  Money is quietly collected and distributed to the needy.   We help transport those who are not mobile to the synagogue (we are always looking for more volunteers) and we visit the ailing and homebound (you can offer to help here too).

The fact is: we are human by birth.  We are Jews by making conscious decision to do our best to improve this word.  We call this Tikkun Olam.

One Erev Shabbat

A tzaddik, one of the truly righteous, desired to become closer to god.  So he sent himself into galut, exile, from his family and home.  He deliberately chose a life of wandering and meager living.  The tzaddik reasoned that if understood the real poverty and suffering of the unfortunates he would draw closer to the Almighty.

One erev Shabbat, the tzaddik in rags came to a small town.  Looking around he found the home of one wealthy Jew.  The tzaddik knocked.  When the door opened the rich man gazed in disdain at the pauper.  Undaunted, the tzaddik asked to spend the holy Shabbos there.  The wealthy man curtly told him there was no room before closing the door.

Many years passed and the tzaddik had given up his wanderings and was now a famous rabbi and preacher.  People flocked to see him, hear his words, touch his cloak.  It so happened that on one Shabbat the tzaddik again found himself in the same town as years before.  This time he arrived in a magnificent carried and the town was abuzz with his arrival.

That wealthy Jew- the same who had spurned him long ago- hurried to greet the famous rabbi.  Begging him to join him for the Shabbos, the tzaddik paused before saying, “I will give you an answer in one hour.”

As soon as the rich man left the rabbi turned to one of his students and said, “Brush the horses, hitch them to the carriage and bring it to the home of the wealthy man.”

As soon as the rich man saw the great carriage coming toward his home drawn by the fine horses, he was overjoyed.  The tzaddik was coming!  He was staying at his home!

When he rushed out to greet the holy rabbi he found the carriage was empty.  How could this be?  Where was the holy tzaddik? The man turned and ran to the center of town where he met the tzaddik earlier and breathlessly asked, “Rabbi, what happened?  Why did you send an empty carriage to my home?  Why did you not come?”

The rabbi answered, “Long ago I came to your home and asked for hospitality for Shabbos.  You turned me away.  This time when I came you embraced me.  I asked, “What has changed since then?”  I realized that the difference is my entourage.  I came in this time riding in a fine carriage with great horses.  Apparently, that is what you really wanted which is why I sent it.”

We have just finished a long process of conversations about the synagogue.  We discovered many wonderful things about Beth Shalom and other things which need attention.  One of the most noticeable items was that universally everyone wants a congregation that supports, welcomes and embraces one another.

Isn’t this what our faith stands for?  Every person is a deliverer in disguise, about to be unveiled.  Every Jew is a messenger with words to be shared.  It can only be done if we welcome on another with a full heart.  No one is special. Everyone is special.  I want to encourage you in joining me in the making of a community.  Come home.  Extend your hand.  Throw out a good word, a smile.

Again and Again

A rabbinic colleague said number of years ago that he peered into the old records of his synagogue archives.  Specifically, he looked at the minutes of past Board Meetings that took place decades before.  He laughed as he told me, “You know, if you changed the names, they are the exact same conversations we have at today’s Board Meetings.”  I chuckled along with him and mused how life is not linear; it circles around and repeats itself. 

One of the things that time has taught me is that you cannot tell anyone anything they do not want (or cannot) hear.  Argue your point forever and if the person is not disposed to hear they will not listen.   Argumentation only works if at least one of the parties is willing to listen.

In the Mishna, Elisha ben Abuyah asked:

He who learns when a child, to what is he compared?

To ink written upon a new writing sheet.

And he who learns when old, to what is he compared?

To ink written on a well-used writing sheet.  

Is this a compliment or insult?  Does this mean that the young are fruits ready to ripen with each bit of information we feed them while the old are calcified?    Or does it mean that the old have vast resources through which they cull new information to determine its authenticity and meaning?  Are the elderly simply more discerning?

I suspect that Elisha’s statement means both.  It depends on the person.  Einstein is quoted as saying that insanity “is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”  What if Einstein was wrong?  What if the same thing never happens again?  Since physical circumstances – unless in a sterilized, controlled environment- are never exactly the same perhaps we can expect different results? 

I wonder if real maturity is the ability to confront life’s recurring problems and be open to different outcomes?  After all, if nothing ever changes, if we know for a certainty that such-and-such will happen, how can we grow?

Youthful joy starts and ends in wonder.  As a little green shoot juts out from the earth from a tiny brown seed, a youngster whoops and shouts.  It is a miracle.  A puppy born is awesome.  Sunsets, movies, bedtime, and swimming in the ocean are unforgettable experiences written on brand new parchment. 

We grow and experience these things many times over in a lifetime.  When they come to us again, how do we greet them? “I’ve seen that a million times?” Or do we have the ability to throw open our arms to an old friend, a reuniting of kinship and affection?

That we grow up is a gift of God.  How we grow up is a gift we give to back to God and to ourselves.

Life is circular.  The earth is round and events turn like the gentle revolutions of our planet.  Yet, age is a gift that allows us to experience thrill time and again.

 “When we pitch camp, we pitch camp in a circle.  When the eagle builds a nest, the nest is in a circle.  When we look at the horizon, the horizon is in a circle,” once said an Indian chief.

Hanukkah is here.  The old Hannukiah (Menorah) comes out.  We buy those familiar multi-colored candles.  We say blessings as we light them, sing songs, and bring gifts.   Is it old or new?  Have we stood here before or is this the first time in our lives?  New parchment or old? 

Take the well-used variety that is warmed by years of use and experience.

Greet each new day as the first day.  Take Hanukkah, please.