One day, in my early adolescent years in the mid-1960s, a thought burst forth from some deep corner of my soul that truly rearranged my sense of the Universe. I was sitting outside at the bus depot in Middletown, waiting for a 10 am NYC-bound Greyhound. I don’t know what it’s like now, but in those days, the station was a small house repurposed into a rather decrepit bus stop. The plain, slightly seedy look of it all didn’t bother me. It was a beautiful day, with wispy white clouds moving gently across the sky, and I was about to visit an old friend.
Another bus bound for Providence was idling as passengers boarded. I looked at the scene, the line of people slowly wending their way into the bus, handing over suitcases and bags. That’s when it struck me. These people I was watching —high school-age kids like me, college students, adults, men and women, and a few young toddlers —were all sharing this moment in time together. And I would never see them again. Ever. This was it.
At first, this thought was disconcerting. It exemplified the true randomness of existence and the sheer vastness of the Universe. Everyone in line had a story, but I would never hear them. We were destined to be total strangers. And more: even if you have a friend circle of 100 people, and you know some of their relatives and relations, the number of people you know is infinitesimally small once you realize that there are 8 billion humans on earth. We live in a world surrounded by the unknown.
These numbers and the tiny circles we inhabit make the people we do know and love even more important. To be known and to be loved are the foundations of humanity. We recognize that loneliness and disconnection can be traumatic and profoundly distressing. We may not know every member of our temple community, but when we gather, we share certain familiar stories that draw us closer.
I know that social media is rightly criticized for creating algorithms that draw people of similar opinions together, excluding a proliferation of other thoughts and possibilities. Pockets of conspiracy, lies about everything from the earth is flat to the moon landing was faked to vaccinations are bad and cause disease, to Jews are seeking to supplant the power of white people, all these and more are all toxic. The astonishing array of ideas in the world can keep us humble and always inquisitive.
But these algorithmic siphons don’t just channel the grotesque our way. Sometimes they bring enlightenment and insight. A few days ago, Jack DeJohnette died at age 83. Perhaps you don’t recognize the name. However, if you listened to jazz, DeJohnette was a legend —a truly iconic master drummer. He did things I found transcendent: beautiful, caustic, gentle, explosive, riveting: all in one tune.
Jack DeJohnette was not only a master technician but also deeply spiritual, a true artist who understood Music as a path to transcendence. In an interview, he once said, “”Music is a spiritual thing. It’s about touching people’s souls, helping them grow, and connecting them to something greater than themselves. He lived that philosophy in every performance, every recording, every moment behind the kit.
I went to hear him play years ago with the Keith Jarrett Trio at Jordan Hall in Boston. I mentioned this to a jazz drummer friend of mine, who expressed some envy over this upcoming gig. He said, “Jack is a supreme musician. If you want to know who keeps it all on track, listen to what he does with his cymbals.” I was skeptical but paid close attention to DeJohnette’s performance. And my friend was right. DeJohnette led the way with dexterity, grace, and muscle. It wasn’t just good Music – it was sacred.
My Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok feeds were filled with clips from performances by DeJohnette and comments from hundreds of jazz fans and musicians, all mourning the death of a truly great man. I found myself within a group of strangers – all sharing a dual sense of loss and appreciation. And it felt so good. Like singing together. Like praying together.
rehhayim
Before Shabbat 