“I have no idea what world we will be living in by the time Shabbat arrives,” began one of my favorite teachers, Reb Mimi Feigelson, speaking from the Schechter Institute in Jerusalem a few days ago. This felt right-on, the acknowledgment of the uncertainty of things right now. Also the sense of disconnect tinged with foreboding shared by Donniel Hartman and Yossi Klein-Halevi in their podcast episode recorded hastily last Friday morning, in the hours after Israel had attacked Iran but the missiles had not yet started falling in Israel: “This is not how wars are fought here; watching on TV, from afar.” The missiles came shortly thereafter. Since then, Oheb families have seen their loved ones spend the week hiding in shelters; at least one has lost their home (you can support this family here). Which oversimplifies the complexity of all we hold. At a listening circle yesterday, what came up was bewilderment, despair in lots of directions all relating somehow to this war, from the antisemitism it has unleashed here on our shores, to the despair for Israel, to heartbreak for the suffering in Gaza and Iran, to not knowing how to hold being Jewish in an awful war being filmed in real time as it unfolds. I think that’s why that comment from last week stayed with me: for now, we are watching something awful unfolding from afar. It both directly affects us as Jews and as Americans as well. How all of this feels new for us, even if in the history of humanity there is, in the words of Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) “nothing new under the sun.”
Poetry and prayer are perhaps more useful right now than prose. “What are you holding onto right now to give you a sense of a world that you can feel alive in?” Reb Feigelson asks. I share this week some poems and prayers, offered in hopes of helping us deepen into a sense of being alive, of tending to the intimate and transformational. Tonight, light shabbat candles – even if you don’t always get to it. The world needs our light, our Shabbos pause. We need the light. We need the respite. Perhaps recite one or more of these poems as you do. We need the connecting inward, to help us touch something alive in us, to help us make sense of all that we hold and witness in this world this week. With God’s help, may we create for ourselves and one another a shabbat shalom.
A Prayer for Groundedness in Troubled Times
by Rabbi Deborah Waxman (President, Reconstructing Judaism)
המקום Hamakom, the One who comforts mourners, be with us in these days of pain and worry. As our hearts tremble, bolster us in strength and empathy and in our understanding of their unbreakable intertwining.
המקום Hamakom, the God who creates and transcends space, encourage us in finding a quiet place to settle our nervous systems and discern what is most important to us.
המקום Hamakom, the Omnipresent, help us to see the vastness of the universe and the beauty of each of its details. Support us in holding the world’s multiplicities and complexities, even in the face of rising extremism and burning conflict.
המקום Hamakom, our Refuge, aid us in navigating the dance between stillness and action, tikkun nefesh/repair of self and tikkun olam/repair of the world, humility and agency, and discovering what we can contribute at each moment.
המקום Hamakom, God of capaciousness, give us the expansiveness to hold our dear ones ever closer and to work toward peace and equity on behalf of people we will never meet.
עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו הוּא יַעֲשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם עָלֵיֽנוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל כָּל יוֹשְׁבֵי תֵּבֵל.
Oseh shalom bimromav hu ya’aseh shalom aleyn ve’al kol yisrael ve’al kol yoshvei teiveil.
May the One who makes peace in the highest heaven help us to make peace for all Israel and for all the inhabitants of the world.
Good Bones by Maggie Smith
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful
Excerpt from A Jewish Prayer for Juneteenth by LilyFish (Note: this may look a little odd on your phone, as it’s designed to be read in two columns, emulating a Torah scroll. Click the link for the proper layout.)
my ancestors wandered to eretz yisrael once, our siblings four times.
we celebrate each step toward liberation
every nissan 15, every June 19
and still we seek freedom.
each of us
| may each of us may each of us may each of us may each of us may each of us may each of us | wade in the water like nakhshon reach the mountaintop learn what it is to do good devote our souls to justice aid the wronged remove the shackles of another |
until there are no shackles left
until our stories have been quilted together
until we are all in the promised land
until we have build eden together
amen
Rabbi Treu’s essays may also be found on Medium.