Before Shabbat

Last week, I had a chance to catch up with my friend, David. We’ve known each other for 55 years and like many of the same things: good music, singing, laughing, and engaging in conversation. We talk about family issues. We talk about common friends. We talk about Israel. We talk elections. We talk– about every and anything.

I could tell David was in a funk when he answered the phone. When you’ve known someone for most of your life, you quickly pick up the vocal cues. Despite all the good things in his life, he was overwhelmed by a sense of doom and despair. To be fair, this is not an aberrant response to the news these days.

There’s a reigniting of the Syrian civil war – what are they fighting about? And the Israel-Lebanon ceasefire; but is it really a ceasefire? And don’t get me – or David – started on the war with Hamas, the ineptitude of Bibi, the tragedy of the hostages, antisemitism worldwide, and on and on.

But wait – there’s more like the Russian satellite in high orbit with a mock nuclear warhead testing the potential to take out our satellites that make life with the Internet and AI possible. Or the latest “black plastic is bad” scare that has us eying the take-out containers with some trepidation. And then, of course, the current crop of proposed presidential advisors and their proposed plans to systematically take down what is and replace it with something utterly other, which thrills some folks – but not David or me.

Shall I go on? We were feeling crushed under the weight of these seemingly intractable dilemmas. How do we go on from here? David was really feeling the darkness of it all. He’s sworn off the news and all social media. He has the genuine fear of a man facing the Apocalypse. I’m not there altogether, though I’m leaning so far into hope I fear I may lose my balance…

And then, my wife, Liza, who knows what a total nut I am about things infinite and galactic as well as origin stories and historical oddities, said, “Do you know about 536?” At first, I thought she was messing with me; “536 what? The time? The address?” “No”, she said, “the year. 536 CE.” I know 586 BCE was the year the First Temple was destroyed. But 536? Nope.

She smiled: “Check it out.” And I did.

Ask medieval historian Michael McCormick what year was the worst to be alive, and he’s got an answer: “536.” Not 1349, when the Black Death wiped out half of Europe. Not 1918, when the flu killed 50 million to 100 million people, primarily young adults. But 536. In Europe, “It was the beginning of one of the worst periods to be alive if not the worst year,” says McCormick, a historian and archaeologist who chairs the Harvard University Initiative for the Science of the Human Past.

A mysterious fog plunged Europe, the Middle East, and parts of Asia into darkness, day and night—for 18 months. “For the sun gave forth its light without brightness, like the moon, during the whole year,” wrote Byzantine historian Procopius. Temperatures in the summer of 536 fell 1.5°C to 2.5°C, initiating the coldest decade in the past 2300 years. Snow fell that summer in China; crops failed; people starved. The Irish chronicles record “a failure of bread from the years 536–539.” Then, in 541, bubonic plague struck the Roman port of Pelusium, in Egypt. What came to be called the Plague of Justinian spread rapidly, wiping out one-third to one-half of the population of the eastern Roman Empire and hastening its collapse, McCormick says.

Does it help to know that, compared to 536, today is a party, a full-on celebration? Yes – and no. Yes, because this reminds us that everything is in context. Life may be hard now, but compared to what? The suffering of the 6^th century is unimaginable. But this? We can do this; we can make it work. Somehow. 536 was the worst year to be alive: this is a cakewalk.

And no. While it’s true that people suffered in the past, that does not make this a fun moment. There are ample reasons to justify a sense of dread. So, don’t bring me reasons to minimize my angst.

I’m going to call David soon and share my 536 knowledge. I hope that will make him feel good, or at least a little better. I’m hoping (there’s that hope again) to allay the sense of Apocalypse while respecting concerns about the dangers to the most vulnerable people in America, perhaps including Jews. In 536 and in 2024, the safest way through the fog is by joining hands and walking together.

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I hope everyone enjoyed Thanksgiving Day and is now in the recovery zone. Maybe you’re watching football, cheering for your team or simply enjoying the background noise of the game. Maybe you’re streaming a cheesy Hallmark movie or a romcom, finding comfort in those predictable storylines with just the right mix of shmaltz and tears to keep you tied in. You may be huddled under a blanket, sitting by a fire, feeling that deep contentment that comes with simple moments. You might be reading a novel, lost in another world, or scrolling through emails or texting a friend who’s far away, sharing virtual hugs and “wish you were here” messages.

At some point you’ll take a nap and chill out – it’s almost mandatory after all that tryptophan! The beauty of this long weekend is in its unhurried pace, the permission we give ourselves to slow down and simply be. Hopefully you’ll have access to some leftovers and luxuriate in the long weekend, discovering that sometimes turkey sandwiches taste even better the next day, especially with a little cranberry sauce and maybe stuffing.

We’ll be zooming Shabbat, and I hope you’ll come online to join me. We’ve found new ways to create sacred space together, to bridge the physical distances that separate us. There’s a lot to be grateful for, and nothing is so good for the soul as thanking God for it all. The act of gratitude itself is transformative, lifting our spirits and opening our hearts to the abundance that surrounds us.

And if you’re an atheist, or simply not sure where you stand when it comes to the Holy One, it still can do your heart a world of good to stop and consider where you stand right now – alive, aware, appreciated. Gratitude doesn’t require a specific belief system; it’s a universal human experience that connects us to something larger than ourselves, whether that’s community, nature, or the simple miracle of consciousness.

In the meantime, the next time you stand up to get some leftovers or a diet Coke from the fridge, walk by someone and just spontaneously give them a hug or a kiss or whatever passes as a comfortable expression of love and appreciation. Just because. Because life is short and surprising, and you never know what your last show of love and thanks will be. 

Make it work. Make it last. Let these moments of connection and gratitude extend beyond the holiday weekend. Let them become habits that enrich our daily lives. In doing so, we create a ripple effect of appreciation and love that extends far beyond our immediate circle, touching lives in ways we might never know.

The ancient Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times,” has never felt more prophetic than in these feverish days before the election. I’m drowning in a digital deluge—podcasts, op-eds, breathless articles, late-night monologues, and round-the-clock coverage swirling into an information maelstrom that’s left my mind reeling. I’m suffering from what I can only describe as a pre-election hangover, complete with blurred vision, a churning stomach, and a newfound phobia of news app notifications. My mental hard drive is maxed out, refusing to process any more data points.

I exercised my democratic right weeks ago, casting my mail-in ballot with the same certainty I’ve felt in every election since my first vote in 1972. While the referendum questions demanded careful consideration, my candidate choices were crystal clear. Throughout my voting life, I’ve maintained an unwavering vision of America’s essence and its potential trajectory. The candidates earning my support have consistently embodied the values I hold dear both as an American and as a Jew. These values are ineluctably tied together.

Let’s be honest—defeat stings. I still remember the sharp disappointment of losing to Diane Snow in that 1962 Student Council election, just as I recall the gut punch of watching George McGovern fall to Richard Nixon in ’72. But in a democracy, the freedom to choose our leaders comes with an implicit contract: winners and losers alike must honor the people’s voice. We can’t retroactively alter the rules or manipulate the results when they don’t align with our hopes.

This principle haunts me now as we approach an election balanced on a knife’s edge. A nation unable to reach a consensus on electoral outcomes courts disaster. Such discord isn’t merely divisive—it’s combustible, a spark that could ignite something far more dangerous than political disagreement.

These “interesting times” would have been unimaginable to my younger self – to all Americans just two decades ago. Storm clouds mass on the horizon, and while I’ve weathered my share of political thunderstorms, I’m deeply troubled by what might catch fire in the lightning strikes: free speech, constitutional rights, the very notion of truth itself.

To those who haven’t yet voted: this is your moment. Exercise this sacred democratic right that, for Jews and other minorities, remains a relatively recent historical privilege. Never take it for granted.

I’ll be watching the results roll in, prepared to accept my fellow citizens’ decision, whether it favors my chosen candidate or not. My deepest hope is that all Americans will do the same, honoring this cornerstone of our democratic experiment.

After all, interesting times don’t have to become dangerous ones—not if we remember what binds us together as a nation is stronger than what pulls us apart.

I’m not a sailor. My DNA plants me firmly on dry ground – somewhere around Lviv, Riga, or Minsk… the heartland of Ashkenazi Jews. Though I’m a lousy swimmer who prefers sand to surf, I somehow sense that I was on the water in a past life. The ocean’s imagery captures my imagination like nothing else.

During these High Holy Days, I felt like I was at the helm of a great vessel, steering through challenging waters. As we navigated through our sea of services, I held the wheel steady, feeling the profound responsibility of guiding my passengers to their destination. The timing of prayers, stories, and melodies had to be just right. Like precious cargo, we balanced cherished traditional prayers that echo High Holy Days past with fresh melodies that brought new energy and excitement. We shared words of hope and joy while not shying away from moments of reflection and solemnity.

Now at port, watching everyone disembark, I wonder: Are they smiling? Was this a meaningful journey? And I feel overwhelming pride and love. We made it! Welcome to our port of call: 5785!

I hope this voyage moved you as much as it moved me. Our cantor, Marcie Jonas, was magnificent – her voice, energy, and gentle neshumah (soul) helped us glide smoothly across the waves. Jamie Saltman, our maestro, accompanied all of us with spirit and heart. In fact, the entire staff helped to make this voyage so smooth.

Back on land, Sukkot greeted us with extraordinary weather – a divine gift for this outdoor observance. We experienced spring’s warmth painted with autumn’s colors. What a blessing to see our entire congregation, from most senior to little ones in the ELC, enter the sukkah and shake the lulav, acknowledging both the beauty and fragility of our world.

And now what? Well, now it’s time for everything else: learning together, sharing Shabbat, gathering for meals and celebrations, and caring for each other. Our temple community continues to do many things we’ve always done. But we don’t do much of it the way we used to.

We are constantly morphing as a community, and as we change, our practices evolve. We aim to be more responsive, more present. We want to anticipate the needs of our community and listen closely to the rhythms of our communal heart. We know the world often feels hostile and indifferent. That’s why we make TBA a place of warmth and safety where all are welcome. As I’ve frequently quoted and paraphrased from Bob Dylan, “Come on inside, we’ll give ya/shelter from the storm.

We’re on our voyage into 5785. With all of our travails, the burdens we carry on our backs, and the scary things happening around us, keep your eyes on the prize. The world has so much joy; let’s find it together.

I have a recurrent dream. I am walking down a hallway seemingly without end. There are identical doors on the right and left. The doors are all closed but not locked. I don’t feel any panic or unease. The infinitude of the hallway is not disconcerting. There are no monsters here. At any point, I know I can open a door without fear. I awaken without anxiety. In fact, I am composed and rested.

I wonder: where was I? Where am I? This dream may reflect any number of possible unconscious thoughts or desires. A growing body of research suggests that dreams might be a product of the brain’s predictive processing mechanisms, continuously generating and testing predictions about the world. This view sees dreams as a way for the brain to refine its predictive models.

This notion of predictive processing doesn’t reflect the dream’s more profound meaning as I have experienced it. What it feels like is a trip into my mind. Behind every door is an imponderable question, a question I may have never thought about.

I have a collection of imponderable questions. Curious about other people’s questions, I googled ‘imponderable questions’. I expected a million lists of perplexing conundrums. Instead, I saw website after website of jokes. “Why do they call it rush hour if nobody’s moving?” “Why are the names Zoe and Zoey pronounced identically but not Joe and Joey?”

There was no sign of a serious list of tough, deep questions. Perhaps it’s all about the unease folks may feel about going deep. It can be disconcerting to start thinking about space, time, matter, and consciousness. It may feel frightening to realize that there are so many imponderable questions. But isn’t that the true thrill in life? To realize how much mystery remains in our world.

I have a list. Why is the speed of light the absolute speed limit of the Universe? The Universe is expanding; expanding into what? Where did the tradition of reading the haftarah originate, and why? What is the origin of consciousness? What if the Universe as a whole is conscious, and our individual consciousnesses are aspects of this cosmic consciousness?

I love to ponder these questions, so basic and yet unknowable. If I were to open random doors in my infinite hallway, which I believe to be my creative unconscious, I might find this one: if all living matter is conscious (called panpsychism), then what does a leaf ‘know’? What might that leaf be thinking today? It may be luxuriating in its yearlong life, from the bud burst days to now, bedecked in outstanding brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows.

If panpsychism is a thing, then perhaps the leaf is aware of temperature change, that it’s cooling off. And does the leaf know what happens next as the temperature chills down? Can it feel the tree stop producing chlorophyll, that as the chlorophyll gets switched off, its color emerges? That its beauty is a sign of its demise?

Yes, I know. This is a flight of fantasy. But I feel it all around me. The leaves are changing. Their beauty is a firm reminder that life keeps moving forward without pause. The gorgeous full canopy of healthy trees will soon give way to multi-colored splendor, which will, in turn, yield dead, brown leaves and branches exposed to the cold. And then it all comes around again.

The Jewish New Year happens, at least for New Englanders, right in the midst of this arboreal transition. It matches our thoughts and experiences as we ponder the big questions about the meaning and direction of our lives. Some things brighten, and others fade.

How will we choose to live our lives? Can we forgive and be forgiven? Can we lean into empathy and thoughtfulness? These are some questions behind the doors in your hallway. Open them up.

On the fifteenth of May, in the jungle of Nool,

In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool,

He was splashing…enjoying the jungle’s great joys…

When Horton the elephant heard a small noise.

Dr. Seuss wrote “Horton Hears a Who” in 1954, the year of my birth. As my parents read to us, I first encountered Horton very early in my life. While I may not have grasped literary criticism as an infant, I’m certain that the sounds of the words, the cadence, and the beautiful rhythmic flow of each phrase delighted me. Even now, seventy years later, rereading these lines is thrilling.

The rhyming, meter, and evocative images wrap around me like a warm blanket. Seuss’s memorable illustrations, so funny and strange, certainly added to the charm. But even without the artwork, the text endures.

Words have a unique way of capturing our imagination, and poetry can have a particularly strong pull on our heartstrings. Yes, it can sometimes be cheesy and overly sentimental, like a treacly greeting card. But when a poem works, it can open a door we didn’t even know was locked.

Personally, I’m not a fan of rhyming poetry. It too often devolves into a search for matching sounds at the expense of deeper meanings. Unless it’s for a children’s book or a parodied birthday song, it just doesn’t move me. 

I know this might infuriate English majors, but I want to clarify that this is all just a matter of taste. I’m not suggesting that Keats, Whitman, or Dickens aren’t brilliant. They simply don’t resonate with me in the same way.

For me, the poetry of meaning lies in plainspoken text, artfully expressed. Some modern poetry – prime examples being The New Yorker’s weekly poems – is shrouded in such arcane images and twisted sentiments that I find myself reading it over and over, unable to grasp its meaning. In contrast, poems by Billy Collins, Robert Pinsky, Mary Oliver, or Ellen Bass speak the language of the heart. They’re filled with pathos and pain, joy, amazement, and hope. There are no rhymes, just true emotion woven with intellectual curiosity.

This appreciation for clear, emotive language is why I especially value the prayers we recite on the High Holy Days. There’s nothing flowery or obscure about them. The words don’t obfuscate our situation: we are mortal, imperfect creatures who need love, support, and kindness.

Avinu Malkeinu is the perfect example of this directness. While it’s not a poem per se, I read it as such. The melody is instantly evocative, even for the most wayward Jew. But even without the music, the words go straight to our broken, yearning hearts:

Avinu Malkeinu, 

inscribe us in the Book of Pardon and Forgiveness. 

remember us for a good life. 

remember us for redemption and deliverance. 

remember us for maintenance and sustenance. 

remember us for merit. 

cause deliverance to spring forth for us soon. 

fill our hands with Your blessings. 

fill our storehouses with abundance. 

hear our voice, spare us and have compassion upon us. 

accept our prayer with compassion and favor. 

open the gates of heaven to our prayer. 

please do not turn us away empty-handed from You. 

let this hour be an hour of compassion and a time of favor before You. 

have compassion upon us, and upon our children and infants.

The clarity is unambiguous. There’s only so much we can control. The rest, God, is up to you. We try to live a decent life, but the world is filled with flying shrapnel, ill will, and things we can never anticipate. I don’t believe we earn God’s blessings – it doesn’t work that way. There’s no Willy Wonka golden ticket hiding somewhere for us to find. All we can do is live what we define as a good life and hope for God’s grace.

And so we gather to recite these meaningful prayers – poems, really – in one voice, sharing an intimate plea with a sanctuary full of our people, our community. In doing so, we connect with something greater than ourselves, finding comfort and hope in the power of words, whether they come from a favorite children’s author or an ancient prayer.

rebhayim