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In Israel, Yom HaZikaron, Memorial
Day, is marked not with barbecues and massive sales, but with silence and
sirens. For 24 hours, names play continuously on Israeli televisions. The siren
sounds, and an entire country stands still.
Amidst all of the pictures from the
Boston Marathon—the blood and the chaos, the terror and the heroism—one picture
stuck out. Thousands upon thousands of runners, literally stopped in their
tracks, being held by Boston police officers. I can only imagine the emotions
of the runners, the feelings as the news spread through the crowd. An entire
community---standing still. I saw on Twitter that one woman, writing from Boston on Friday,
wrote the following about her morning. She said: The incongruous world outside our window:
helicopters, then birdsong, then sirens, then silence.
Just a couple of days ago, this
sanctuary was filled with New Yorkers, many by way of Israel, celebrating
Israel’s 65th Birthday under the auspices of the Israeli consulate. And as
people filed in, we were treated to the hits of the last century by way of
Israeli music. They’re all songs I love, and one in particular has stayed in my
head throughout the events of this entire week.
Al kol elehh, al kol eleh
Shmor na li eli ha-tov
Al hadvash ve'al ha'okets
Al ha-mar vehamatok
Shmor na li eli ha-tov
Al hadvash ve'al ha'okets
Al ha-mar vehamatok
Over all these, Over all these
God please watch over them for me,
Over the honey and the stinger
Over the bitter and the sweet
God please watch over them for me,
Over the honey and the stinger
Over the bitter and the sweet
Over the honey and the stinger, over
the bitter and the sweet—on the joy and on the sorrow, over death and over life.
In any given year, this paradox is the experience of the week of Yom HaAtzmaut.
This week, all the more so. We went from Yom HaZikaron right into the bombing
in Boston; my newsfeed changed from heartbreaking pictures in Israeli cemeteries
to heartbreaking pictures from Boylston Street. And in just hours, we moved
into Yom HaAtzmaut, the celebration of a truly miraculous 65 years….just as we
read miraculous stories of heroism and bravery, of first responders and
ordinary citizens. Over the honey and the stinger, over the bitter and the
sweet—we held sorrow and joy in our hearts and in our hands.
Tomorrow morning, we’ll open Torah to
the double portion of Acharei
Mot-Kedoshim. For centuries, our rabbis have tried to connect these two
parshiot; one with its focus on sexual ethics and forbidden relationship, one
with its focus on building holy community—by linking one behavior with the
other. How we behave in our most intimate relationships, say our sages, guides
us in our behavior with the rest of the world.
But tonight, this week, I want to look
no further than the very words that open these two parshiot: Acharei
mot…kedoshim tihiyhu. Taken at their most literal: After death, you shall
be holy. What a lesson, what an imperative, to hold with us this week. After
death—after witnessing terror and tragedy, loss and grief, you shall be holy;
you shall be your highest self, your best impulses. An ancient teaching, made
new again this week, as taught by Rabbi David Ingber: after death, after
witnessing life cut short, unexpectedly, without warning or preparation, ‘holy
ones’, rededicate yourselves to holiness, to making the world a more
meaningful, more loving, more compassionate place to be.
In a
2009 series on Leadership and Crisis, Rabbi Dr. Donniel Hartman said the
following, which seems prescient today. How do we experience crisis and grow from it? How do we experience
crisis and not become depressed, not become frozen, not become debilitated?
Crisis becomes a catalyst for us to investigate who we are and to raise new
principles of ethics and decency to the forefront of our consciousness both
individually and collectively.
In a well-known Talmudic teaching (Sotah 14a), the
rabbis ask what it means to, in the words of Deuteronomy, walk in God’s ways.
How can we, they ask, walk in the ways of a Being we cannot see, or feel, or
touch. Their answer: “Just as God clothes the
naked, so should you; just as God visited the sick, so should you; just as God
comforted the mourners, so should you; and just as God buried the dead, so
should you.” Acharei mot, kedoshim
tihiyu….
In a beautiful article
about first responders, Rabbi Shai Held wrote the following:
Notice something about
the Talmud’s list. The naked are vulnerable, but their situation is reversible;
the sick are vulnerable, but at least sometimes they can heal. Mourners have
sustained an immense loss; nothing can bring back their loved ones. And the
dead are… dead, and never coming back. Their situation is the very paradigm of
irreversibility. Each situation the Talmud invokes is more irreversible than the
one before, and hence, I think, also more frightening. Yes, the Talmud appears
to be saying, these people’s circumstances are scary. Stay with them instead of
fleeing.
Faced with a situation
that makes us stare the depth and extent of out vulnerability in the face, most
of us want to flee. Here, then, is Judaism’s message: You want to serve God?
Run towards the very people and places you most want to run away from. You want
to be religious? Learn to be present for other people when they are in pain.
All the rest is commentary.
Laura
Wellington posted the following story on Facebook; within a day or two, it had
gone viral:
As some
of you know, I was 1/2 mile from the finish line when the explosion went off. I
had no idea what was going on until I finally stopped and asked someone.
Knowing that my family was at the finish line waiting for me, I started panicking, trying to call them.
Diverted away from the finish line, I started walking down Mass Ave towards
Symphony Hall still not knowing where my family was. Right before the
intersection of Huntington, I was able to get in touch with Bryan and
found out he was with my family and they were safe. I was just so happy to hear
his voice that I sat down and started crying. Just couldn't hold it back.
At that
moment, a couple walking by stopped. The woman took the space tent off her
husband, who had finished the marathon, and wrapped it around me. She asked me
if I was okay, if I knew where my family was. I reassured her I knew where they
were and I would be ok. The man then asked me if I finished to which I nodded
"no." He then proceeded to take the medal off from around his neck
and placed it around mine. He told me "you are a finisher in my
eyes." I was barely able to choke out a "thank you" between my
tears.
I
don’t think—though who knows!—that Brent Cunningham of Sitka, Alaska is a
religious Jew. But on Monday, he certainly walked in God’s ways.
As
they always are, the stories out of Boston following the attacks were
beautiful— the runners who finished the race and ran back to help and comfort
the injured, marathoners running off the course to go give blood, thousands of strangers
opening their homes—and more.
I was talking to a dear friend--one of my rabbis-- this
week, wondering what words we could share tonight that would bring some
comfort, that would allow us to be angry and sad, but also move us forward. She
reminded me that life is really
scary, precarious and uncertain and these situations bring that everyday
reality a little to close and a little too real. She’s right, of course. We
know in our own lives, in our own private stories, that life can change in an
instant. And moments like these, these national tragedies, bring that home—writ
large. We see our fears played out on the big screen, in living color and
high-def details. So, what do we do?
Kathleen Treanor’s daughter was killed
in the Oklahoma City bombing, 18 years ago today. She wrote a public piece for
the family of Martin Richard, the 8 year old boy killed in Monday’s attack. His
mother and sister remain in critical condition, and so she wrote that she would
eventually reach out to them personally, but they are too far in grief and
disbelief. And so instead, she directed her words toward all of us. She wrote:
What I want
to tell them is that they didn’t do anything wrong. They were living their life
without fear, and they have to continue to live their life without fear in
honor of their boy. That’s the way you move forward. You’ll get angry. You’ll
go through all the phases of grief, but eventually you’ll get to acceptance.
And acceptance doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ve let go of the person you
lost, but you understand where you are now.
And so,
just as Yom HaZikaron gives way to Yom HaAtzmaut, and just as next Patriot’s
Day thousands will again line up to run the Boston Marathon—we will move
forward, just as we each do in our own lives and our own griefs. We will move
forward, as the song says, holding on to the honey and the stinger, the bitter
and the sweet.
But,
Kathleen Treanor goes on to add something important, something that—consciously
and unconsciously—we all came for tonight. She writes about what she learned in
the aftermath of her loss, a loss that changed our society. She writes:
We need each
other. That’s why we live together. Do not pretend that you’re disconnected,
because you’re not. That’s why we choose to live in communities like we do. We
need to be there for each other. Don’t assume that your neighbor is coping.
They’re probably not. That’s what we learned in Oklahoma 18 years ago. That
we’re stronger in numbers.
As we always do, in the honey and the stinger, in the bitter
and the sweet-we come together. We share the words of our liturgy, that we go
to bed tonight in peace—and wake up in the morning to a world that is a little
brighter, a little better, a little more hopeful. We wish Shabbat Shalom to a
stranger, we hug a loved one a little closer. We walk in the world with a
little more empathy, a little more compassion, a little more kindness. We try to walk in God’s ways.
And then, acharei mot--kedoshim n'hiyu: after the deaths….we will be holy.
Ken Yehi Ratzon--may it be so.
