Before Shabbat

On the hot evening of July 20, 1969, I looked up at the moon from Camp Hadar, a Jewish overnight camp in Clinton, CT. The moon seemed so close. I squinted my eyes tightly, hoping to see Neal Armstrong step down onto the surface. On the moon: An ancient fantasy of humanity fulfilled in my lifetime! It didn’t seem possible that such a thing could be, yet there it was, unfolding on a black and white tv, broadcasting live. What did it all mean to a teenager of the 60s? That in a terribly broken world of war and racism and poverty, something profound could happen, something that exemplified the transcendent spirit of exploration, something bright and hopeful. My friend Murray argued throughout the night that this lunar landing stuff was all made up. He claimed that Nixon was using it to divert the public from his criminal actions in Vietnam. I haven’t seen Murray in about 45 years, but the moon landing conspiracy people are still out there. But I didn’t buy the conspiracy then and I don’t now. We did it. We walked on the moon. The probe landing on a comet the other day was certainly not as dramatic as Armstrong and Aldrin on the moon, but still! What an extraordinary achievement. To take 10 years to get there and then actually succeed – not perfectly, but good enough – to touch down in one piece and then start sending back information. Information on what? I hope the telemetry will reveal basic facts on the origins of the Universe itself. In other words, I hope what we discover is ourselves (ok, I was influenced a bit by the movie Interstellar…) Some folks have wondered whether or not the comet may yield evidence of alien life. I have argued about this notion for years. I am not a follower of Carl Sagan, who said, essentially, “Look out there at the billions and billions of stars; how can there not be alien life of one form or another?” I am a believer in the Fermi Paradox which states quite simply, “If there are billions of stars and planets in the Universe that are capable of supporting life, and millions of intelligent species out there, then how come none has visited Earth?” Since there is absolutely no evidence to support either side it comes out to be a question of aesthetics. But what if – just what if – I am wrong. What if the comet ends up holding some amazing and incontrovertible evidence that presents us with the fact there was and there is alien life out there? Does the Dow Jones crash? Does NSDQ soar? Do riots break out? Is there a food panic? And what about spiritually? What does it mean to people of religion if there is non-human intelligence in the Universe, potentially more intellectually advanced? What does it do to our relationship with God? Or to put it more colloquially: is alien life good for the Jews or bad for the Jews? The answer, simply enough is as follows: you do your thing, we do our thing. We respect you, you respect us. After 2000 years of being treated as though we were an alien life form, we can surely show some empathy for others from outer space. How other faiths may respond I can’t say, though my guess for traditional Christians is that a non-human intelligence would mess with their notion of the Trinity. That is, if God is Jesus and Jesus is God and both are spirit, how can there be an intelligent life form outside that sacred triangle? For Jews, God transcends this planet. Our God is not just our God. Our God is not a God of territory or ethnic or racial preference. Our God is larger than us, larger than the Universe itself. I looked up at the moon on a hot summer’s night 45 years ago and I wondered what would happen next? Would I walk on the moon? Would I go into space? Would I go to Vietnam? Tonight I’ll look up at the sky wondering how to even imagine something 300 million miles away. Will my children or grandchild (I’m patient…) leave Earth’s orbit? Will this planet still be inhabitable 100 years from now? Will my progeny one day look at Earth through a telescope, marveling that their roots are interplanetary? With or without alien life, the Universe is filled with mystery and promise and hope.

On the night of November 9, 1938, violence against Jews broke out across the Reich. It appeared to be unplanned, set off by Germans’ anger over the assassination of a German official in Paris at the hands of a Jewish teenager. In fact, German propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels and other Nazis carefully organized the pogroms. In two days, over 250 synagogues were burned, over 7,000 Jewish businesses were trashed and looted, dozens of Jewish people were killed, and Jewish cemeteries, hospitals, schools, and homes were looted while police and fire brigades stood by. The pogroms became known as Kristallnacht, the “Night of Broken Glass,” for the shattered glass from the store windows that littered the streets. The Nazi state imposed a fine of one billion Reichsmarks ($400,000,000) on the Jewish community in Germany. Jews were ordered to clean up and make repairs after the pogrom and were barred from collecting insurance for the damages. The state confiscated payments owed by insurers to Jewish property holders. In the aftermath of the pogrom, Jews were systematically excluded from all areas of public life in Germany.

The morning after the pogroms 30,000 German Jewish men were arrested for the “crime” of being Jewish and sent to concentration camps, where hundreds of them perished. Some Jewish women were also arrested and sent to local jails. Businesses owned by Jews were not allowed to reopen unless they were managed by non-Jews. Curfews were placed on Jews, limiting the hours of the day they could leave their homes. http://tinyurl.com/84rljhq

Kristallnacht is seen as a decisive moment in what Lucy Dawidowicz called the War Against the Jews. Mass violence was perpetrated against the Jews of Germany and not only did the authorities not intervene, they actually participated in official and unofficial ways. It showed the world that the Jews had been completely disenfranchised and without legal support or representation.

  It is said that many Germans disapproved of the events on that November 9th. It was too much violence for them at that point, and too up close and personal. The Catholic Church and the Protestant community could have spoken up forcibly at that moment, representing those people who were shocked and offended by Kristallnacht. But they did not. Many historians wonder what might have happened had there been some official Christian response to the German violence. Certainly headlines all over the world expressed revulsion, including the New York Times, where Kristallnacht was a headline leading story. But in the end, while many were disgusted, few said something; fewer did something.

The night of Kristallnacht my father was 11 years old living at the Baruch-Auerbachsche orphan asylum in Berlin. I’ve always wondered what it was like to be a Jewish orphan on that night of terror. Were the doors barricaded? Were the windows covered? Were the kids hiding under their beds? Could they smell the smoke of burning synagogues and Jewish businesses? Did they actively fear for their lives? Were these Jewish children, already victims of misfortune to be in the orphanage, utterly hopeless and lost? When these children fled Germany the following year, did they imagine that they would live to see adulthood?

What I know as the child of a Holocaust survivor is that my father was robbed of a childhood. He was robbed of any kind of rational balance point to perceive his world. That is, my father lacked any sense of what was “normal.” How to be a parent? He had no context. Trust in others? Only at risk of losing one’s life. The importance of lovingkindness? He would’ve said he couldn’t afford lovingkindness. He suffered as so many survivors did, the loss of everyone and everything of meaning. When the anniversary of Kristallnacht arrives every November, not only do I think of the broken glass for which the day is named, I think about my father’s brokenness. I think about all of the broken people. I think about all the Jews whose lives were smashed forever.

I carry, as do most children of survivors, my share of wounds and injuries related to the Shoah. Trauma has a way of seeping into the DNA of a family. Sometimes in pictures from the Holocaust I imagine seeing relatives: could that be? It looks so much like… Sometimes I imagine that I see myself. Other times I imagine being in a particularly hellish place and standing no chance of making it. These thoughts and experiences come not only on the anniversary of Kristallnacht. Not a day goes by when some Holocaust language or imagery or allusion clouds my life. It is a bitter legacy… But it inspires me to stand proudly as a Jew in the world. It inspires me to declare the words “Never Again!” and mean it, not only for my children and grandchildren, but for all innocent men, women and children. I pray that one day no child will ever know the fear of my father or feel the pain of broken glass and broken dreams.

Shabbat Shalom

rebhayim

Exactly a week ago I was responding to former mayor of Boston Tom Menino’s decision to cease treatment for his cancer. I admired his brave decision to say, “Enough!”, then gather his family and friends around him. Surely, I presumed, he still had enough fortitude to reach Thanksgiving if not Christmas, just one last time. And then in a flash, or so it seems from out here among the living, he was gone.

I listened to countless testimonials about Mayor Menino yesterday on WGBH and WBUR. Parenthetically, for major local stories, there are no better sources for up to the minute news then these 2 NPR affiliates. As I listened I remembered something Maya Angelou once wrote: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” So many people mentioned Menino’s love of and advocacy for children. He was way ahead of the curve when it came to GLBT issues and treated members of that community with enormous humanity. He cared, and his constituents knew it because he was sincere and committed. As Yvonne Abraham wrote in the Globe today, “Tom Menino was a master of the heart.”

One thing I heard really stuck in my craw. I don’t remember who said it. “Mayor Menino could be very tough. He was truly a fighter.” No disagreement there. In fact he could be downright vindictive in the face of criticism. Friends and foe alike knew that you did not want to be on the wrong side of an argument with the mayor. But then the guy said, “The mayor went out fighting.”

In fact, he did not go out fighting. There is great honor in his decision to go gently into that good night. Tom Menino had a choice once he heard from his doctors that they could not vanquish the cancer. He chose death with dignity. He embraced the truth with quiet bravery and wholeheartedness.

The choice to embrace the ending with quietude and dignity has not been honored enough in the contemporary world. It frustrates professional caregivers when a patient says no more. Doctors and nurses often feel like it is a defeat when a patient opts out of the fight and chooses palliative care. In too many situations patients and their families are made to feel guilty, as if they are quitters, when they voluntarily end treatment.

Tom Menino fought his way back from several illnesses and physical challenges in his life. Thank God he did: for the sake of his family, his constituency and for the sake of Boston. I honor him for that indomitable spirit that enabled him to push back the angel of death. And I honor him for reminding all of us that death with dignity is not an abstract concept but rather a real decision that deserves serious consideration and respect.

May Tom Menino rest in peace. May his wife Angela, his children and grandchildren never forget the gratitude of a city well-served by a man of conviction. May all of us derive strength and meaning from his life, and from his death.

When I moved to Newton in the summer of 1997, Tom Menino was already in his second term as mayor of Boston. His accent was so strong, his enunciation so mushy, I think I could make out every 4^th word Menino spoke. Sartorially speaking, he appeared rather rumpled, or, in Yiddish, a little shlepidik. Whatever the opposite of glamorous was, it was him.

Years later, even though I’m a citizen of Newton, I’ve followed Menino and his style.  His intense up close and personal style always appealed to me as did his no nonsense roll your sleeves up and get involved attitude. I’m not saying the man was perfect – I am saying that Tom Menino’s can-do attitude and his work ethic inspired me. I was and will always be proud that he was my “other” mayor.

In his later years in office, Menino endured stretches of poor health, including two earlier bouts of cancer. Every time Menino managed to battle back to good health. But when he was diagnosed with aggressive cancer shortly after he left City Hall, it felt truly tragic. He’d worked so hard, he’d earned lots of free time to spend it with his family. And now he was being cheated.

Today Tom Menino informed us that he was suspending chemotherapy. He’s done. I must say that I, like so many in the Boston area, felt a sharp pang of regret and sadness. He’s a father figure, an institution. People like Tom Menino are supposed to be indestructible. But they’re not. And we’re not either.

Tom Menino had come to understand that his cancer treatment would not, could not bring him a quality of life worth living, and so he said no more. What a brave declaration to make!

Our society has created the expectation that anyone with cancer, no matter how advanced or how debilitating, has the obligation to keep getting treatments, no matter how debilitating or how miserable. The option to say no more has been characterized as dishonorably surrendering to the enemy. A cancer patient isn’t allowed to ‘give up.’

In a world where it seems de rigueur to keep trying the latest chemo or the more extreme dosages despite the massive side effects, it feels like our lives don’t quite belong to us. It often seems to patients and families that the docs and the hospitals aren’t looking at the entire picture. It’s as if the endgame is a different issue. But of course, it’s not. The endgame, after all, is the place where we all arrive.

Doctors have begun to reassess the ways in which sick people are pushed to treatment. They have begun to acknowledge that it can be cruel and futile to operate on elderly, enfeebled people. They have begun to engender a sea change in Western cultural expectations about embracing palliative care and hospice not as failure, but as in lifting up end of life care as gentle and kind.

Atul Gawande’s newest book, Being Mortal,  looks at the issue of dying well in America and the impediments to achieving it. He pushes us to see that living a long life for the sake of living, despite pain and the loss of autonomy and dignity, must be discussed openly. Tom Menino decision challenges us to discuss this, too.

Our tradition reminds us that while we are forbidden to hasten death, we are also forbidden to stand in its way when death is imminent. The fundamental Jewish value, choose life, is exactly what Menino did when he said no more to his doctors. By ending chemo, by commencing palliative care, he is dying on his own terms.  I read that as choosing life.

Like many people, I am concerned about the various African nations afflicted with an outbreak of Ebola. I have deep sympathy for the people suffering and dying as well as for the surviving family members and the community as a whole. The unlikely possibility of Ebola spreading and infecting thousands in this country has crossed my mind, though I can’t say it keeps me up at night – yet.

The chances of contracting Ebola in Newton, MA are ridiculously miniscule.  We are much more susceptible to infections by any number of much more common viruses, from meningitis to the flu. Forbes says, “It’s also important to note that the panic about Ebola in the U.S. is driven more by xenophobia and fear of the unknown than by rational thought, and that a large outbreak here is still very unlikely.”  http://tinyurl.com/kge9jqz It makes sense to just stay calm. Furthermore, the sensational and occasionally ridiculous headlines, the grandstanding, remonstrating, ignorant congressmen, the pathetic warnings of apocalypse – all of this creates a big dose of skepticism. I will not succumb to the panic woven into the 24 hour media blitz. And I certainly will not jump on the “who-can-we-blame” bandwagon.

But then we read the following: “You can now get Ebola only through direct contact with bodily fluids. But viruses like Ebola are notoriously sloppy in replicating, meaning the virus entering one person may be genetically different from the virus entering the next. If certain mutations occurred, it would mean that just breathing would put one at risk of contracting Ebola. Infections could spread quickly to every part of the globe, as the H1N1 influenza virus did in 2009, after its birth in Mexico. … [T]he risk is real, and until we consider it, the world will not be prepared to do what is necessary to end the epidemic.” http://tinyurl.com/mggh85m

How worried are we supposed to be? What are we to believe? Who truly is knowledgeable about Ebola?

There is now an answer to these questions. We have an Ebola czar. Do we really need an Ebola czar? There are good arguments, pro and con, on this issue. Frankly, what could it hurt? It is obvious that nobody in this country on the medical front or the public health front seemed to quite know how to initially respond to this devastating virus. So at this point we need all the help that we can get.

The new Ebola Response Coordinator, is Ron Klain, a very bright and a very successful lawyer. This fact instantly calms me down. Why? Here’s the unvarnished truth. I confess: it’s because he is Jewish.

Obviously the Ebola Response Coordinator job is not out of the Talmud. The point is that a man with a Yiddische neshama, i.e., a good Jewish soul, is running that office. I have never met Ron Klain, though as soon as I saw his photo I realized that I do know him, or at least, his physiognomic type. I recognized him as a person I can trust. We stood together Sinai: I remember his face!

I know. This sounds a bit preposterous and maybe even a bit chauvinistic. Obviously I would have no qualms with any qualified person the President chose, regardless of faith or ethnicity. But I know where Mr. Klain comes from. I’d like to believe that his ethical sense of the value of life and the notion that all of us are created equally in God’s image is a part of his Jewish heritage. That Jewish heritage will help him make hard decisions with compassion and honesty. I’m glad he’s there for all of us.

Shabbat Shalom,

rebhayim

I spent a lot of time at Pilgrim Lake this summer while I vacationed in Orleans. It used to be a very crowded, popular place, especially with younger families. Kids could run around by the water screaming and yelling without fearing undertow or great white sharks. There used to be a large raft some yards out for kids and adults to jump off. Liza and I raised our children at Pilgrim Lake and were responsible for more than our share of noisy kids. Usually Liza’s siblings and their kids were running around the beach, too. There were times when half the people at Pilgrim were related to me – it was great.
Pilgrim Lake is the place where my brother Steven drowned 20 years ago. There is a bench near a shade tree that bears his name. It’s a perfect place to get out of the sun and watch the beach. I love it when I see kids and adults sitting there. It’s as if every time the bench is used, Steven’s memory is being well-served.
For whatever reason, things have quieted down at Pilgrim. In fact on at least 3 occasions I was the only one on the beach. It was never for a long time, but long enough to cherish the quiet and the sheer beauty of that spot. I look out to the approximate place where Steven went under and never returned. I remember the madness and the sorrow of that day. And then I look at the sapphire sky and the reflection of the trees in the water. I feel the hot sun on my face and the breeze that keeps me just cool enough to withstand the heat. I realize that in the face of such simple splendid beauty, how can I stay sad? How can I not acknowledge the transcendent power of this place? How can I not celebrate how this place has nurtured me even while it has taken from me, too…?
While at the Cape this summer my son and his wife came to stay with us for a few days, along with their boy – my grandson (God I love the way that sounds…). Of course the whole tribe went to Pilgrim. I watched as my son Jonah played with Caleb, my grandson. There they were having a really good time. Caleb would throw some sand and Jonah would chase him. It was one of those silly games that seem so engrossing when you’re playing with a 1 year old.
It struck me quite suddenly as I sat there at Pilgrim that time had simultaneously expanded and contracted. It took my breath away. There I was, watching my son play the same game with his son that I had played with him when he was my grandson’s age. It was an infinite loop, a picture in a picture in a picture… It was a form of time travel.
Pilgrim Lake is the site of my pain and my pleasure, my past, present and future, beginnings and endings. If, as Sheryl Crowe says, “Every day is a winding road”, then at least for this summer if not for every other day, that road has passed through Orleans and led right to Pilgrim Lake.
This winding road has so many hairpin turns, so many surprises and hazards and vistas. Not even Google maps can provide me a surefire way of navigating it. All I can do is keep my heart and my eyes open, appreciating every moment of love and grace.
There will be time to comment on the world’s crises and angst. There will be opportunities to acknowledge the challenges to which we must respond. The new year’s to-do list grows by the second. But just for now – right now – before all of the hard work begins, let me share simply how good it is to be alive, to thank God for the blessings of transcendent beauty, for the mystery of the winding road.
It’s good to be back.

Shabbat Shalom,

rebhayim

Before Shabbat is on hiatus… But remaining silent at such a time is pahst nischt (a thing not done). I wish I had comforting words to write, that I saw some hope for a true dénouement. If you’re reading the news regularly then you know that hope is a commodity not to be found in Israel or Gaza. For Israelis there is a catalog of unrelenting fear:
1) Fear of being injured by missiles, most of which have thankfully either been intercepted by anti-missile missiles or have fallen in uninhabited areas.
2) Israelis close to the border are living in fear that at any moment a tunnel delivering well-trained and merciless terrorists could emerge within their community, or even within the very boundaries of their own house or garden. Should Hamas or Islamic Jihad succeed in emerging undiscovered from one of these tunnels, there could be carnage on a massive scale. http://tinyurl.com/mbwtjxp
3) The terrible fear that a friend, son, grandson, brother, husband, father… will not come back alive. The waiting to get a call or email or… something to indicate that a loved one is ok.
For the Palestinians of Gaza there is of course unrelenting fear as well.
1) Fear of Israeli missile attacks at any time, with or without warnings. For the many Palestinian civilians in Gaza who have survived Israeli strikes and are now homeless, there’s nothing “surgical” — a term Israel uses to describe its strikes — about the attacks that have killed their family members, friends and neighbors. http://tinyurl.com/lm79gm9
2) Fear of finding safety for oneself and one’s family.
3) Fear that life in Gaza – already difficult before the latest war – will only get worse.
It may be that the biggest fear, the existential dread, is that this conflict will become permanent. After all, we are fighting a foe with a strong nihilistic bent, who sacrifice their innocents on the altar of Islamic extremism and utter hatred of Israel and Jews in general. I don’t use the term ‘human shields’ because that is a cynical use of civilians. There is nothing cynical or ironic about Hamas. They have a mission, and that mission is to do everything in their power to bring down the Jewish state. Hamas is intentionally trying to create a humanitarian crisis. It wants to intensify the distress in order to bring international pressure on Israel. http://tinyurl.com/m8x7b9h We also know that when the world sees their dead children the world will react with revulsion. And they should feel revulsion.
We feel revulsion! Hamas has created an impossible situation for us. In order to protect ourselves, to stop the missiles, to destroy the tunnels, we have killed innocent people. That Hamas has engineered this nightmare does not change the fact that to defend ourselves we have shed innocent blood. This is something I hate Hamas for more than the missiles. It is an analog to a famous quote by Golda Meir to Anwar Sadat. She said, “We can forgive you for killing our sons. But we will never forgive you for making us kill yours.” I can never forgive Hamas for making us kill children. This is the simple truth of Gaza: The biggest enemy of the people is not Israel but Hamas. It is Hamas that refused to build a decent society for its people when it had the chance. It is Hamas that chose hate over life. http://tinyurl.com/l3jky9y
To be honest, I am feeling very unforgiving of all those politicians, Israeli and Palestinian, who squandered countless opportunities to make peace over the past 47 years since the 6 Day War. Time and again, extremists and opportunists on both sides stood in the path of peace until now, when there truly is no longer a clear path. A two state solution appears today as likely as time travel: theoretically interesting but utterly unrealistic. This carnage is the product of willful hatred and hubris and ultimately a profound lack of courageous leadership on both sides.
So what can we do? How can we respond? First, read the news. Check editorial pages. Look at Israeli press coverage on these websites: http://www.timesofisrael.com/, http://www.haaretz.com/, http://www.ynetnews.com/. Know what’s going on.
Plan a trip to Israel. This is something Barry Shrage, president of CJP preaches. He says that just being there and spending US dollars boosts Israeli morale significantly.
Send money to Stop the Sirens, a charity established by the Reform Movement, the Conservative Movement, and JFNA (the Jewish Federations of North America) to raise and distribute funds to provide respite for children and families through programming outside of missile range, emergency respite to institutionalized people with emotional challenges, and handing out food and activity packages to families in shelters in Sederot, Beer Sheva, Ashkelon, Asdod, and Gedera, and in the Sha’ar HaNegev region. Go here to donate: https://secure-fedweb.jewishfederations.org/page/contribute/operation-protective-edge
Go here http://tinyurl.com/n3dtb5m for more information from the CJP website.
We all send our sympathies to the families of all those Israeli soldiers who gave their lives for the Jewish State. We also send our sympathies to the families who have lost innocent loved ones in this awful war.
May the One who brings peace to the Heavens bring peace to us, to Israel, to all the world. Amen.

Sometimes I am just too distracted for my own good. I grab onto a train of thought and hold on, twisting and turning until it feels more like a roller coaster and less like a train… This behavior produces lots of sighs and then I forget what I was supposed to be thinking about. In fact, there is nothing more disconcerting than walking into a room with a purpose and then utterly losing what said purpose was…

Alas: this is the way of the world – so much to and say and consider. There are those who counsel not to read the news; if it’s that important you’ll hear about it. Otherwise it’s just too depressing. I wish I could follow that advice. The thing is, I live in the world. I actually care about what’s happening in the Universe around me.

I know what you’re thinking; we are just dust in the wind, a mote in God’s eye. In the end it’s all pretty much absurdity. So why get too worked up? This is not untrue. I know in the end it all goes away. I know after I’m dead that the world just keeps turning without me. I know entropy is inexorable.

Frankly however, I am not interested in the moment after I die. I care about right now, the moment in which I reside.  This moment is the only thing I have. And so I feel some kind of obligation to know what’s happening around me. Once I learn about what’s happening, how can I remain aloof or disengaged?  How can I not care?

What’s called for here is balance, or at least, some semblance of acrobatic dexterity out here on the tight rope.  It may be that prayer originated on this tight rope. Not the cry-of-help prayer our ancestors offered up when they saw a snaggletooth tiger approaching. I mean instead the “help me care about others and not be overwhelmed by the pain of the world” prayer. I mean the “help me experience the true beauty of the world despite its hideous shambles” prayer.

And so I say the following prayer: Thank you God for these beautiful first days of summer. Thank you for all the blessings you bestow upon me. Thank you for the splendor of the earth in all its beauty. I am aware of my good fortune to be an American Jew living in a world of comfort and prosperity – help me to never forget just how good I have it. Help me remember that there are millions upon millions of people who suffer every day without enough food and shelter. I know I can make a difference even as I know I cannot change the world on my own. Help me to remember that I may enjoy my life without guilt for the infinite injustices of the world. Help me to remember that I must stay committed to eradicating whatever evil I can eradicate. “You are not obligated to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist from it” (Pirke Avot 2:21)

I’m not always sure about the ancient prayers of our liturgy, but this prayer is unambiguous and sincere, challenging me and challenging God. Prayer is the bamboo pole an acrobat depends on to keep from falling.

******************************************************

What can I say? I read my email while on vacation. I read the news while sitting on the beach. I am connected. I am committed.

Of course I will be relaxing. I will be engaged in serious R&R  at Nauset Beach and Pilgrim Lake. You ask what I’m reading this summer? Here’s the list: Peter Heller’s new novel, The Painter (you must read his first novel The Dog Stars), A Constellation of Vital Phenomena by Anthony Marra, The Sound of Things Falling, by Juan Gabriel Vásquez, and The Age of Miracles, by Karen Thompson Walker. As I review my list, I realize these are all dark, intense novels… Oh well…

Before Shabbat goes on hiatus with this latest blog, to return in late August. I wish you all health and peace of mind. As Lester Burnham once said, “…[I]t’s hard to stay mad, when there’s so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst… And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life…”

Shabbat Shalom

rebhayim

Whenever I read about such criminals I try to imagine what they’re thinking. I try to discern their logic and their values. I truly wonder what motivates them to threaten young lives.

Try as I might, I can find no entry point to their minds. To peer inside their world is to enter a place darker than a cavern in which illumination is impossible. Their up is my down. Their universe rests on a foundation of self-aggrandizement that clearly sees 2 kinds of people: those who believe as they believe and those who do not. As long as the “believers” dress a certain way and talk a certain way and adhere to the same ideology, all is well. But those who do not accept the same code for their lives are written off as dangerous and worthy of scorn, derision, and violence. That is, the non-believer is an enemy when he/she dares to voice another version of reality.

In the dark world of these kidnappers there is no such thing as an innocent life. And so these three boys are now in danger’s way. We don’t even know who kidnapped them. The Netanyahu government accuses Hamas of the crime and Hamas denies involvement. But no one in fact has stepped up to take responsibility, which is odd. Odd, because terrorists generally kidnap in order to broker a swap of imprisoned compatriots.

We don’t know where the boys are, a fact that is frightening, given Israel’s amazing abilities to use intelligence in the Occupied Territories. There are those who think security tightened too quickly for the kidnappers to leave Israel. Others suggest they were spirited out and may be in Iraq or Syria or even Iran.

Of course there are loads of facts that are all very top-secret. Whatever the military and the government are doing, they have been doing with grim purposefulness. There are a lot of sleepless people in Israel this week.

As I’ve read about Naftali, Gilad, and Eyal, it strikes me how different they are from my sons. Their parents and I probably have differences of opinion on everything from Jewish observance to the legitimacy of Reform Judaism to a two-state solution to the legitimacy of Israeli settlements in the Occupied Territories. It is likely that we would never meet, so different are our worlds and our social circles. Yet for all the ways we are on opposite sides of so many issues, on one we are united: those boys are our children. We pray for their release.

  
Shabbat Shalom

rebhayim