About Healing/Refuah: "I will keep you in my prayers"

Over the past several years, I have been adding a phrase to the mi'she'be'rach healing prayer that is found in many editions of the Siddur.

"Ve'chazek et yi'day ha'oskim be'tzor'chay'hem..." --  'May God strengthen the hands of those who care for them [for those who are ill].'

This addition to the prayer is meaningful to me since, despite the fact that when we are seek we feel alone, we are surrounded by people - caregivers, volunteers, family, other visitors, strangers...

Some of these people work to help make us better, but do not necessarily pray for us to feel better.  Some of these people can only pray for us to feel better.  Still others, the strangers, may not even be aware of our presence - like passing shadows we may not even know their names nor do they know ours.  In all three cases though, there is healing power at work.  At the bare minimum, recognizing someone else is present near us keeps us connected to our humanity - especially in a clinical setting where people become 'patients' (even 'health care consumers').

In bikur cholim moments, visiting the sick - whether in person, by card, or phone - we extend our prayers, and we may hear, "I will keep you in my prayers."  This is comforting, the idea that someone else is thinking about us.  That someone thinks of us is the power of the mi'she'be'rach in the first place.  It is a reminder to 'keep' the person 'in our prayers' during our lives that we can only really keep our attention on one activity at a time.  We take upon ourselves the responsibility of praying on behalf of someone when we say 'I will keep you in my prayers'.

But we should not avoid saying it even if we're concerned we will not follow through...Even if we keep that person in our prayers for the few minutes between when we leave and return to the rhythm of our lives, there is value in those minutes of conscious empathy and connection to someone we care about.

During the month of Elul, a time when we seek healing for our souls, and healing for our loved ones and friends, whether physical or spiritual, let's keep them in our prayers at one level more actively than before - if we sent a card before, now let's call; if we called before, let's arrange a visit; if we visited once before, let's make a meal or visit again.

A note about being a pray-er/caregiver:  It's stressful!  It takes courage, energy, and time to do this work.  Let's make sure that we care for ourselves as we are caring for others.

*Are you caring for/praying for someone right now?  How has that work impacted you?

Hearing the Message of the Shofar

How many of us would agree with the statement:  The world is exactly the way it should be. There is nothing left to fix or create.  All our work is done.

Anyone?  Anyone?

Amazingly, our Rabbis teach us that we are supposed to think this way during Shabbat.  In order to carve out the holy time, to really distance ourselves from the things that consume our minds day in and day out, we need to convince ourselves that there is nothing to do.

But we know there is always something to do.  Something in our minds, sometimes on time, sometimes too late, reminds us that we have a responsibility, a task to complete, a goal to pursue.

At this time of year, we have a little extra help with our memories, and that is the sound of the Shofar.

The Shofar is meant to catch our attention, wake us up, get our minds in gear and open our hearts.  Unlike the musical prayers we sing, it is not by nature a pleasant sound,  Like an alarm clock, it is a sound that, at least at first, makes us jump back, makes us a uncomfortable, until we realize that it is a sound we need, a sound that we need to push us forward.

The Shofar notes, specifically the shevarim, the 3 part note, and the teruah, the staccato blasts, communicate the two major feelings we experience at this time of the year in the Jewish calendar.  The shevarim, literally meaning, the broken ones, or pieces, is the sound of loss, the sound of the loss we feel at the time of transition, the sound of a heavy heart. 

This sound has its origins in an unlikely place, as I taught this past Wednesday.  The ancient Israelites battled against local kingdoms in Canaan to establish themselves and ward of enemies.  One such enemy was King Sisera, general of the army of King Yavin of Chatzor.  The Israelite General Barak got word from the prophetess Deborah, Devorah, that he would win out over Sisera.  Similarly to what happened between the French and British at Agincourt, Sisera’s chariots got stuck in the mud, and he and his soldiers fled.  Sisera ended up in the tent of Ya’el, who when Sisera took a nap, well, let’s just say she dispatched him in a pretty intense way.  You can read about it in Chapter 4 of the book of Judges. 

At the same time, back in Chatzor, Sisera’s mother was looking out the window, waiting to hear news, and her attendants told her that her son must be celebrating his great victory, they told her this as she looked out the window crying, not knowing her son’s fate.

We know this hurt, the hurt of not knowing, the mystery and fear of not knowing what will happen even with our best efforts. 

This is the shevarim.

The Teruah is the sound of advance, the sound of war, the sound of boldness in confronting the unknown.

When our hearts feel weak, we listen for the teruah.  But when we are charged by the teruah, we should also keep the memory and mark of what has challenged us to heart so that we always act with empathy, with tolerance, with gentleness, knowing how fragile we all are – no matter how strong our muscles may be.

The world is for sure not the way we want it, or hope it can be.  We are a community of seekers, of strivers, of dreamers.  And the Shofar is like the blast of the horn of a train, the train of the New Year, telling us it’s time for all aboard and let’s make this year a blessing.  Amen. 

Parshat Shofetim: Cities of Refuge - For the person, for the soul

For several years in New Jersey, before they built a cell tower in our town, I walked around our house, holding the phone up as high as I could, to see where I could find a spot with reception, with ‘bars’.

When I was at conferences at Camp Isabella freedman in Connecticut, a lovely site in the woods, my previous cell phone provider’s service did not extend there, and I was compelled to wait in line and use a phone calling card.

We want to be connected to our families and friends, and then, there are moments when we need to be on our own, to have moments of silence and reflection.  We need a safe and protected place where we can find peace.

What is the safest place for each of us in the world?

Where do we go when we need to ‘get away from it all’?

Does a place like this actually exist for us anymore, in an age that our lives, our work, news and more can follow us almost anywhere in the world?

We studied today the ancient cities of refuge – These were not necessarily the most calm, protected, or isolated cities.  Our ancestors did not flock to these places for reflection or spiritual renewal.  They fled to these cities in the event they were involved in an act of involuntary manslaughter.  The example the Torah cites is someone is cutting wood, and the axe handle flies off and ‘strikes another person so that he dies’. 

To protect the individual from revenge, he flees to a city of refuge for asylum.  There were six cities of refuge:  3 on the eastern banks of the Jordan – Bezer, Ramot, and Golan, and 3 on the western side:  Kedesh, Shechem, and Chevron.

The cities were marked well – and the roads to them needed to be wide and well-maintained.  In order to achieve full asylum, the individual had to stay in the city until the death of the current High Priest. 

These cities were intended to protect individuals from revenge, even though in other places the Torah teaches us not to bear grudges and not to take the law into our own hands.  The manslayer is still culpable, still guilty, but his crime was unintentional.

In this season, when we do cheshbon ha’nefesh, when we look inward to turn our hearts to God, to turn our hearts back to the people we love so that we do not take them for granted, so that we honor them, we may feel we want to escape to a city of refuge, or a place of refuge.  The weight of having to seek forgiveness or pursue reconciliation is heavy. 

Running away might not even take a change in geography.  Too often we turn inward, shut down, think about things that are not important, fill up our time with distractions so that we do not have to confront our loose ends, the broken places that we may be able to repair. 

Setting up the cities of refuge was as challenging as our task this season.  Our ancestors as we said needed to keep these roads in good repair, no small challenge when dealing with mud and rock. 

And although the manslayer’s action was unintentional, it is highly likely that the personal sense of guilt, in addition to the idea that a family member of the victim could be in pursuit, filled the individual with fear and anxiety.  We feel the same thing.  As the Bal Shem Tov taught, we may run away from our problems, but when we turn around, we will find these things running after us, right behind us.

And still, if there is a place we can go to find peace and refuge, a place where we can put our thoughts together, stop time for a few brief moments, this gift we can give ourselves will help us to get ready for the fall holidays.  The gifts of building courage within ourselves so that we do not delay.  We cannot stay in these places for too long, or we’ll get stuck, and not be able to find our way out.

A story from Rabbi Chayim of Zans

A man had been wandering the forest for several days, not knowing which was the right way out.  Suddenly, he saw another approaching him.  His heart was filled with joy.  ‘Now I will certainly find out the right way!’, he thought to himself.  When they neared one another, he asked, ‘Brother, tell me the right way out.  I have been wandering for days.’  Said the other to him, ‘Brother, I do not know the way out either.  For I too have been wandering many days.  But this I can tell you:  do not take the way I have been taking, it will lead you astray.  And now let us look for a new way out together.’

It is time now, this month of Elul, the month when we begin to hear the sound of the Shofar, time to help each other, time to forgive each other, time to let go of grudges, time to find healing in our lives even if we cannot also find a cure. 

And may the invisible, ever present, and whispering voice of God lead us from our places of refuge back out into the light of the New Year.  Amen. 

Remembering Shira Banki z"l

I don’t know much about Shira Banki except that she attended this year’s pride parade in Jerusalem to support.  I know she was 16 and that she died as a result of stab wounds inflicted by an assailant who had committed the same crime ten years ago at the same event.  I now know that at her funeral her parents spoke about how she was an amazing young woman, “intelligent, beautiful, intelligent, gentle, curious, musical girl… Even adolescence had passed over her with grace, and she blossomed like a beautiful flower.”

And though I only learned her name today, I am heartbroken for her parents and siblings and angry that the alleged assailant could perpetrate the same crime at the same event when his rhetoric and threats apparently had not changed at all during his 10 years in prison.

These days, after Tisha B’Av and prior to Rosh Hashanah, are supposed to be days of comfort.  Seven weeks of comforting messages from the prophets that lead up to Rosh Hashanah.

And now there is bitterness and there are tears, again, as we sing a kinah (a dirge) for Shira, meaning “song”. 

And we also remember another lesson of the Rabbis about the way we should treat people.  The ideal relationship is “What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is yours.”  We do not all have to agree, and we must not seek to inflict our opinions and worldview on others.  We can explain ourselves, lobby for our views, even offer to teach them, but violence is so beyond the boundaries of any thoughtful rebuke or criticism as taught by the Rabbis.  To attack with a weapon, to inflict pain and death on innocents, is to believe that one is God, and that is one of the most blatant and disgusting blasphemies against Jewish faith and tradition that there is.

This coming Shabbat I am going to dedicate E—L Adon, a song about the beauty of creation, to Shira Banki z”l, to a young woman whose name means ‘song’ and whose song and presence, I pray, will be a forever light and inspiration to everyone who seeks to support the freedom and dignity of all our fellow Jews.