Erev Yom Kippur 5762: “The Spirituality Of Shared Grief”
(by Rabbi Howard L. Apothaker, with news and resources off the Internet, NYT, et. al. as noted)
This sermon is copyrighted to Rabbi Howard L. Apothaker, Ph.D.
NO REDISTIBUTION OR REPUBLICATION IS PERMITTED.
As the soot and dirt and ash rained down,
We became one color.
As we carried each other down the stair of the burning building,
We became one class.
As we lit candles of waiting and hope,
We became one generation.
As the firefighters and police officers fought their way into the inferno,
We became one gender.
As we fell to our knees in prayer for strength,
We became one faith.
As we whispered or shouted words of encouragement,
We spoke one language.
As we gave our blood in lines a mile long,
We became one body.
As we mourned together the great loss,
We became one family.
As we cried tears of grief and loss,
We became one soul.
As we retell with pride of the sacrifice of heros,
We become one people.
We are
One color
One class
One generation
One gender
One faith
One language
One body
One family
One soul
One people
(Anonymous, Jersey City Secretary)
Bayom Hahu, on that day God’s world was One.
Besides the physical transitions 9-1-1 brought us: the loss of persons, the loss of buildings, the loss of property;
Besides the loss of humanity that 9-1-1 brought us: people’s goodness, their caretaking, their productivity;
We lost, and perhaps, regained most quickly, an awareness of our souls.
Listen to just a few first hand impressions of the tragedy a fortnight plus ago. Some commented on vulnerability:
- The surreal is real.
- Our assumptions about the nature and meaning of life are terribly shaken.
- Yesterday’s attack has changed my life forever.
- We are saddened, shocked and enraged at the ... randomness of this act.
- This is a lost of our virginity, awareness of our vulnerability
- We are also afraid.... Life will never be the same.
- Sometimes you want to commit suicide.... The reason I’d not do it is my kids.”
- We have lost our innocence today.
Some thoughts were of relatedness:
- I feel as if I am related personally to the dead, to the grieving.
- Our shared fears have led to our feeling of cooperation.
Others saw something happening in themselves, a new self-awareness:
- I am aware of the humility to which we have been brought — let me accept it.
- I am aware of the fragility of that I had denied — let me honor it
- I am aware of my own powerlessness — let me accept it. (poeticized by HLA)
There were no things left.
There were no thoughts left.
There were only feelings.
What settled over us briefly two weeks ago was a certain oneness of spirit. The Spaniard Miguel de Unamuno put it this way: “Spiritual love is born of sorrow.... [People love] when they have suffered the same sorrow, when ... they have ploughed the stony ground buried beneath the common yoke of a common grief. It is then that they know one another and feel one another and feel with one another in their common anguish....”
“This is the end,” said another. “The end of an era, the era of our invulnerability. A barrier has been irrevocably breached. In the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, the proud symbols of our global power and influence were violated. Our invulnerability lasted for more than 200 years. We came to take it for granted. We welcomed allies, but also acted alone. Even as modern technology shrunk the protection that geography once offered us, we sought invulnerability in more advanced technology. Today our leaders tell us that an aerial shield will deflect all enemy attacks aimed at our shores, a comforting thought, reinforced by our abiding faith in technology.
“But all that has now been revealed as partial at best.” As in the sukkah we shall soon be building, there is a hole, yet filling, we pray, with spirit.
“Man is the creature who wants to be God,” Jean-Paul Sartre sadly observed. But we are not God, and given our human nature, spirituality suggests not “I’m okay, you’re okay,” but, “I’m not okay, and you’re not okay, but that’s all right.” Whenever we deny our limitations, spirituality suffers. Thus Bill Wilson, one of the founders of Alcoholics Anonymous, repeats Sartre’s sentiment: “It seems absolutely necessary for most of us to get over the idea that man is God.”
In a television interview beamed around the world last week, Howard Lutnick, a CEO for whom self-confident control is crucial, wept as he described the devastation of his bond-trading company, Cantor Fitzgerald, and the deaths of 700 employees in the World Trade Center attack. He was taking his five-year old to nursery school, but his brother, Gary was among the victims.
For those moments we realized that we were not in control, that all that we had done — reinforcing and putting in “fail-safes” whenever we could — did not put us in control. “Man plans; G-d laughs.” (Yiddish Proverb)
During these weeks, we have become re-introduced to humility, reacquainted with fragility and re-familiarized with powerlessness — with concentration on objects and ideas giving way to feelings.
A congregant wrote to me the following:
“As I was driving home this evening, at about 5:45 p.m., I rode past the police headquarters. Police cars ringed the building, and the mounted police were out, as well as numerous police on foot. Located diagonally across the intersection from the police station is the YMCA. As much of downtown was deserted, there were only a few people milling around outside. As I drove past the alley beside the Y, I saw a very poignant scene. There, on the curb, were two homeless people facing one another, their heads touching and bowed in prayer. Here were two people who had absolutely no material possessions, but still possessed the dignity and the ability to pray.” At that hour, they had as much, if not more, power in their souls that Howard Lutnick. “I will never remember this day,” concluded the congregant, “without thinking of their hands, grimy with the dirt of the streets, folded in prayer.”
Did people pray for the past two weeks, even the doubters. Did we utter just a teensy, weensy prayer? Did we say, “I hope?” “I hope the numbers don’t rise.” “I hope there are no more attacks.” “I hope that there are people alive to be rescued.” “I hope it doesn’t happen here in Columbus, OH.” What are those thoughts, those words, those inner and outer expressions of hope, but prayers.
To be sure, there is nothing that those thoughts and words can really do, is there? Does hope help? No physical reality is produced by hope, uttered or unspoken.
Our hopes describe a world that is not: that we wish would be, notwithstanding what is. But who didn’t have them, who didn’t hope for the very unlikely — believer and agnostic? Who did not wish for the near impossible — that there be some miracle. I dare say, many common, and everyday prayers were voiced. We heard them indirectly in people’s conversations. We saw them in their eyes.
Don’t be embarrassed. Recall the moment. Listen to yourself. We hope and we pray naturally. Do not deny yourself.
We learned of our vulnerability. We learned that we pray. We became aware these past two weeks of our oneness, a mystical feeling, suddenly and mysteriously and humbly ... by our awareness of our fragility and by our own ... well, oneness in our common and everyday prayer, our sober hopes.
We also became reacquainted with another aspect of ourselves as voiced this way: “On Wednesday, the day after the attack, I felt a camaraderie with my fellow citizens that I have rarely felt before. People asked, how are you doing, how are you feeling, and they really meant it this time.” Another wrote: “Those commuters who went to work everyday by public transportation would see one another. Rarely — never in most cases — would a word be passed. This kind of thing would go on for years. Seeing the same people, never inter-connecting. The Monday after the tragedy each person who saw one another now at least acknowledged each other’s presence, a nod, a “good to see you,” an occasional handshake or hug.
The experience of connectedness and harmony is more than simply “feeling good.” The word “good” itself comes from an old language stem that means “being joined together,” presumably in a fitting way. The experience of harmony and connectedness that is a part of spiritual — the “feeling good” that flows from the sense of being good — derives from a vision of life that sees the self in perspective, as somehow fitting into a larger whole ... and somehow linked. That sense of integration and shared fate is among the most important of human experiences. It is certainly one of our deepest human desires.
That sense that in some way one is united with a reality beyond or larger than one’s self underlies all art, religion and love. When that connection is not present, we experience alienation and separation, a sense that “something is wrong.” We reach out to touch, we ache for contact, but something is missing. In the absence of that connection, we experience the sensation of being fractured, torn apart, pulled in different directions.
Some put that selfless togetherness to the ultimate test two weeks ago. Abraham Zalmanovitch refused to leave his buddy, Ed Bayea, who was a paraplegic, and could not climb down the stairs when the order came to evacuate the building. Abe was an observant Jew, Ed, a pious Catholic, but on that last day of their lives, that was not the most important.
“I feel much more tolerant of the ordinary annoyances of everyday life,” said Arlene Rettig, a psychotherapist in Beverly Hills, Ca. What an understatement!
A man from Austin wrote into the New York Times: “As a native Texan, I have had a sort of, forgive me, John Rocker attitude toward New York City. The tragedy of Sept. 11 and the following days have proved to me that I was wrong. The city’s mayor, firefighters, police officers, other emergency workers and residents have been an example to the world. New Yorkers make us all proud to be Americans. I offer my apology for any derogatory comments or thoughts about your city. Now, tell me where I can get an ‘I ♥ NY’ bumper sticker.”
Most Americans have begun to think much more seriously about our obligation to each other. One civil airline captain is reported to have told his passengers after 9/11: “Now since we’re a family for the next few hours, I’ll ask you to turn to the person next to you, introduce yourself, tell them a little about yourself and ask them to do the same.” If this attitude persists, it will be a major moral gain. But if, in another month from now, we witness a cavalier war of words and political positioning, then we’ll look back on this week the way we look back on “Princess Di Week.” We pray that we might use this tragedy to propel us into a sustained sense of connectedness, a genuine sense that we actually feel responsibility for one another.
We re-learned another lesson on that Tuesday, one that maybe we should have known before, but we needed last week’s terrible tragedy to make clear to us. I mentioned last week, that almost as soon as the planes hit, we got together and decided to evacuate our building. I chided myself: After the Trade Towers and the Pentagon, did I think that TBS of Columbus was next on the terrorist’s hit list?
Of course not. At a time like that, we want our family around us. We want to know that they are safe, and we want them to know that we are safe. At a time like that, we don’t want to be alone. We want to be able to hug somebody, to talk to somebody, even just to watch the news on television with somebody rather than be alone. We learned something about why we need our families.
I call on another congregant’s note to conclude this point:
“Rabbi, Tuesday’s tragedy has caused most of the people of this nation to step back, look at their loved ones, friends and acquaintances with renewed love, respect and interest. I am sure that in due time we will fall back into our oblivious, comfortable sense of security and the raw feelings that have been exposed will settle back into the depths of our hearts. But in the mean time, along with the pain and sadness I am feeling, I will also savor the depth of love that has blossomed from my heart, for all the beautiful people I know and those I don’t. Tuesday’s events have awakened a realization in me as to how much I love my fellow man and country. It is a good feeling, one that brings joy as well as sadness.”
This experience rent us, tore us apart, and in that tearing, G-d willing will pull us together. As individuals, we are reliving the lesson of Reb Moshe Leib of Sasov: “No one is as whole as the one who has a broken heart.”
How do we go on? Some point fingers while others search desperately for help. Some say, “Let’s start from where we are,” and some cannot help looking behind themselves. A colleague from North Jersey writes: “In my seven-year old granddaughter’s elementary school there are at least three kids’ whose parents are missing. There are congregations (Jewish, Christian, other faiths) which have suffered terrible losses of cherished members. Mayor Giuliani has advised us all to get back to living our lives, and that is good advice. Terrie and I love Broadway. But I honestly don’t know when I am ever going to feel like seeing a show again.” (paraphrased)
Certainly, we know what not to do. I remember reading about an American soldier who liberated Auschwitz. He entered the barracks and saw the degradation, smelled the fetid conditions, and witnessed death in the eyes of the inmates. He wrote, “Now I understand what hate can do. It can make us turn others into animals.” We must learn from him. We must struggle with our hate so it does not consume us.
How do Israelis handle the danger? They go on living. They continue to shop, they continue to ride the buses, they continue to send their children to school. There is always an element of concern, which is why they compulsively listen to the news every hour on the hour. But they understand that if they ever stopped going on with their normal lives, they would be conceding the field to the bad guys; and they are not prepared to do that.
Brides and grooms continue to plan their weddings, my niece and her fiance included. B’nai and B’not Mitzvah kids still sing their Torah B’rachot. And there are still people who become ill, need surgery, have babies (as one of congregants did last night) or need comfort at the loss of loved one. The things I have been doing for 21 years as a rabbi still need to be done. And that helps bring me back to earth from wherever it is I that have been.
Still, hear the message sent by one, called Monday vs. Tuesday:
- On Monday there were people fighting against praying in schools.... On Tuesday you would have been hard pressed to find a school where someone was not praying.
- On Monday there were people were trying to separate each other by race, sex, color and creed.... On Tuesday they were all holding hands.
- On Monday we thought that we were secure.... On Tuesday we learned better.
- On Monday we were talking about heroes as being athletes.... On Tuesday we relearned what hero meant.
- On Monday people went to work at the World Trade Centers as usual.... On Tuesday they died.
- On Monday people argued with their kids about picking up their room.... On Tuesday the same people could not get home fast enough to hug their kids.
- On Monday people picked up McDonalds for dinner.... On Tuesday they stayed home.
- On Monday people were upset that their dry cleaning was not ready on time.... On Tuesday they were lining up to give blood for the dying.
- On Monday politicians argued about budget surpluses.... On Tuesday grief stricken they sang ‘G-d Bless America’.
- On Monday we worried about the traffic and getting to work late.... On Tuesday we worried about a plane crashing into our house or place of business.
- On Monday some children had solid families.... On Tuesday some were orphans.
- On Monday we emailed jokes.... On Tuesday, “How are you’s”, “Did you know anybody who was effected?”
Let us not forget the spirituality captured in our hearts during these moments of tragedy:
- The spiritual sensibility that is rooted in and revealed by uncertainties, inadequacies, helplessness; the lack and the failure of control;
- The spiritual sensibility that suggest the benefits of prayer and prayerful humility;
- The spiritual sensibility that is nurtured in community, the oneness with others that may spring from shared vision and shared goals, shared memory and shared hope.
Let me end, then, with this poem written by Sapier Jamie Behr, a fifth grader at a school in the shadow of the World Trade Centers:
My heart racing, tears in my eyes, sirens yelling in my ear
I felt it.
Fear in me, friends in my arms, more tears from each of us coming
I knew it.
I’m shaking, I hear nothing, my world got shut down
I saw it.
Sadness came a hold of us, terrified was I, but good things will blossom out of this
I know it.
With our eye of soul and spirit, we know it too!
Life does go on. We will, in time, heal. We will, in time, recover. We will not be the same. But we will still choose life, love life, live life, and be ever more aware of its spiritual dimensions. With God’s help, let us hope for it and pray for it. Amen.