Enduring Unspeakable Loss

Rosh Hashanah Day 1, 5762 (2001)

Last Tuesday began like any other. Some of us woke up on our own; others had to be nudged out of bed. We washed, we got dressed; we went off to work, or to school; we may have gotten kids off to school. But then, within a few minutes, the focus of our day shifted dramatically. Whatever we may have been concentrating on, whatever may have held our attention, soon shifted to the periphery. Instead, we entered a new reality, filled with khil u'readah, fear and trembling.

In our high holiday liturgy there is a prayer that attempts to capture that feeling: the Unetaneh Tokef. Whatever stage of life we happen to be in, whatever state of mind we happen to be in, whatever year it happens to be, the Unetaneh Tokef stops us short. This year, it seems eerily and extraordinarily contemporary as it describes, in excruciating detail, the fragility of life and the utter unpredictability of our future:

(On Rosh Hashanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed:)
Who shall live, and who shall die;
Who shall live out his days, and who shall not;
Who shall perish by fire, and who by water;
Who by the sword, who by a wild beast;
Who by hunger, and who by thirst;
Who by the ground trembling beneath him, and who by illness;
Who shall be at rest and who shall be tormented;
Who shall be wealthy and who impoverished;
Who shall be humbled and who shall be exalted. …

The misery described in that prayer is truly horrific. In an ordinary year, most of us, when we recite the Unetaneh Tokef, may focus on the unpredictability of life, but we probably don't give much attention to the possibility that we might suffer, or lose our lives, at the hands of another. After all, how likely is it - so many of us might have wondered before last Tuesday - that we ourselves, living our comfortable lives in America, would become victims of violence?

This year is very different. This year, even before getting to the Unetaneh Tokef, all of us are wondering just that.

And yet, the Unetaneh Tokef is not a new prayer. It was written long ago. A twelfth century manuscript by Rabbi Ephraim ben Jacob of Bonn tells us how, according to legend, Rabbi Amnon of Mainz, who lived just before the Crusades, came to compose the Unetaneh Tokef prayer. I never before felt it appropriate to share this legend, but this year I feel differently. Here is what the manuscript says:

Rabbi Amnon of Mainz was one of the great men of his generation. He was handsome, wealthy, and well esteemed. The local ruler, the Archbishop of Mainz, kept insisting that he abandon his faith. He repeatedly refused. Finally, he said he needed three days to consider the matter. But once he left his presence, he felt enormous remorse, since he had let it be believed that he would even consider abandoning his faith. When he was sent for, he refused to go, so he was brought against his will to the ruler who demanded to know why he had not come on his own. Amnon told him why and said, "I shall pronounce my own sentence. Let the tongue that spoke and lied to you, be cut off." The archbishop refused and said, "No, the tongue I shall not cut off, for it spoke well. But the feet that did not come to me at the time you set I shall lop off, and I shall torment the rest of your body as well. This was done.

Rosh Ha-Shanah arrived. Rabbi Amnon asked his relatives to carry him to the synagogue just as he was and to lay him down near the bima. And it came to pass, as the cantor came to recite the Kedushah, the "Sanctification," Rabbi Amnon said to him, "Stop: Let me sanctify the great name of God." And he cried out in a loud voice, "uvchen l'cha taaleh kedushah, -- May our sanctification ascend to you!" at which point he spontaneously composed and chanted the Unetaneh Tokef. When he concluded it, his own end came, and he vanished from the earth before the eyes of all.

That legend reminds us that our people has been exposed to unspeakable cruelty throughout our history, often perpetrated in the name of religion, and we've carried the memory of that horror with us. That legend is nine hundred years old. For hundreds of years even earlier than that, our people told stories of violence and bloodshed perpetrated against us, memories of what used to be called "man's inhumanity to man." To us, then, it should be no surprise that there is evil in the world and that there are people bent on afflicting other human beings. Throughout our history, our people, for one, has repeatedly faced uncertainty, insecurity, danger.

But for many of us, confronting raw evil is a novelty. America has always seemed like such a safe country. What are we supposed to do?

What we witnessed last week was such a surprise. We will long be reacting to the horror, the enormity of the assault on us and on our country. Perhaps it would be helpful to look to our tradition, which unfortunately has had lots of experience with tragedy and cruelty.

What would our tradition say should be our response to tragedy? After the shock, after the tears, the gasps and nervous laughter, the black humor, the relief at being alive? What should our response be?

Let us look at the text of the Unetaneh Tokef, which provides Rabbi Amnon's answer. After presenting that horrible list of all the things that can happen to us, the text continues: "But teshuvah, tefillah and tsedakah maavirin et roa hagezerah -- Teshuvah -- repentance, tefillah -- prayer, and tsedakah - acts of lovingkindness, annul the severity of the decree."

This is a powerful assertion, but note what it says and what it does not say. The Hebrew phrase, ma'avirin et roa hagezerah, does not imply that our actions can cancel a decree, can prevent a tragedy. How could that be? There are two kinds of tragedies that can happen to us: natural and of human origin. Sadly, we Jews have come to understand that we have little control over either of them. God created the world to function according to the laws of nature, and he created human beings with the freedom to choose to do good or to do evil. And we must live with the consequences.

No, the focus of this prayer is not annulling any decree. The focus of the Unetaneh Tokef is to teach us how, in a world of uncertainty and suffering, we should respond to our existential reality, and it and assures us that the roa hagezerah, the severity of the decree, namely, the pain and suffering that are intrinsic to life, can be diminished thereby.

How so? How can we possibly diminish our pain? Let's discuss each of the responses presented in the Unetaneh Tokef.

Teshuvah, repentance, is a very natural response to catastrophe. What is teshuvah? Teshuvah means to turn or orient one's self. You can't turn one hundred and eighty degrees unless and until you stop, and that's what happens - or can happen - in the wake of a catastrophe such as befell us last Tuesday. A certain clarity can come to us.

A friend of mine lives and works in New York. Her co-worker got married just ten days ago. Last Tuesday morning, she and her new husband took a cab from their home in Queens to catch a flight from La Guardia to Disneyworld for their honeymoon. As they were about to get on the flight, they began to learn about the hijackings. The entire airport closed down. They were told to retrieve their luggage and leave the airport. Immediately. There were no buses or taxis, so the newlyweds picked up their suitcases and left the airport on foot. It was a bizarre scene, she later said: hundreds and hundreds of people walking along the Grand Central Parkway to get as far away from La Guardia as possible.

Gradually, it dawned on them what they had been spared. The couple was never so happy to be so close to home. They simply walked for about forty-five minutes to their home and there they spent their honeymoon. And you know, they were very happy to do just that - even though just one day prior to that, they wouldn't have considered it.

Last week, the newspapers began publishing the transcripts of some of the cell phone conversations that some of the hijacked airline passengers and some of the folks on the upper stories of the World Trade Center towers managed to put through before their deaths. Do you know what was the most common phrase to show up in those conversations? "I love you."

I'm sure that many of us have been kissing and hugging and saying, "I love you," to our loved ones a lot more frequently since last Tuesday.

We shouldn't need such terrible reminders of the need to say, "I love you." We shouldn't need such reminders of the need to be smeichim b'helkeinu, happy with our lot, and to be real and present and honest. To be men and women of integrity. To live our lives the way we know we should.

We should ask ourselves more often: How good are we, really, in doing what we should be doing? How menschlich are we? How effective do we teach others to be menschlich? Those questions are the foundation of teshuvah. If we can ask them honestly we can accomplish much.

Another Jewish response is tefillah. We need prayer now more than ever. Not so much petitionary prayers, but what Heschel calls prayers of empathy, prayers that help us determine what to pray for. That is why so many of us gathered the other night for a candlelight vigil. That's why thousands have gathered in Boston and in cities throughout the world. That's why we're here today. The power of the holy word, the power of silent contemplation, the power of community - we feel these now more strongly than ever.

Finally, there is tsedakah. Last Tuesday, I visited the home of a woman within our community whose husband had boarded Flight 11 out of Boston but who did not live to reach his destination. It was a scene of shock and pain and tears. But it was also a scene of great compassion. One neighbor was taking responsibility for the now father-less children; another for providing food in the home. Still another was handling visitors. People were coming together, at the worst possible time, to be there for someone in need. This is tsedakah - righteousness - in one of its highest forms.

The scene I witnessed was repeated in thousands of homes, in many cities across this nation, as people came together to help those who'd been affected most personally and deeply by this tragedy. Sometimes it isn't until after a tragedy that one realizes the enormous compassion and caring people are capable of. Sometimes it isn't until after a tragedy that we realize what we are capable of.

Think about that awful legend concerning the creation of the Unetaneh Tokef. Think about how Amnon could have responded to his awful experience. Think how our people could have responded. Though we have been exposed to unspeakable cruelty throughout our history, we have tried not to allow that memory to degrade us, to embitter us, to turn us away from the values that unite us -- to turn us into intolerant, merciless killers. Instead, we transformed that memory into something remarkably positive: A desire to bring justice and mercy to the world. A desire to improve the lot of all humanity. A desire to redeem the world.

I hope and pray that the same will be so here in America. America was founded on a dream, a beautiful dream. The dream is freedom and the equality of all human beings -- democracy. Now of course America isn't perfect, but it's a remarkably humane country founded on a remarkably enlightened ideal we can all - and should all -- appreciate. As a nation, we have been dealt a painful blow, but I hope that we never abandon the "noble ideals and free institutions that are our country's glory."

We have been exposed to many disturbing, even horrifying images during the past week. I want to close with a more redemptive image.

Last Wednesday was not an easy day. I'm sure that many of us were just beginning to feel the aftershocks of the nightmarish experience we witnessed on Tuesday. Many of us hadn't slept too well the night before. Here at the synagogue, in the middle of the afternoon, we organized two separate assemblies for our religious school students, to help them cope with their feelings in the wake of the attacks and to help them come to appreciate Jewish responses to the tragedy. It was not pleasant to have to share with kids the sadness of the hour.

At one point, I stepped outside for some air, and what I saw was a sight for sore eyes. There, in the back of our property, just past the school wing, were two members of our congregation putting up the frame of our communal sukkah. I was never more happy to see a sukkah. It never looked more beautiful, more precious, more impressive.

Think of it: on the day after witnessing the collapse of two of the tallest, most secure and firmly constructed buildings in the world, to see an intentionally temporary and fragile sukkah rise from the ground. What a contrast! What a sign of hope! For the sukkah, on the one hand, symbolizes our vulnerability. We realize, when we enter a sukkah, that we live in a fragile world. Physical protection will always be chancy. But then we look up at the skhach, and through the skhach to the sky, and we are reminded of God's sheltering presence, which, as ephemeral as it is, we pray we can sense even when we're feeling most vulnerable. The sukkah represents our faith, our hope, our commitment to living a joyful life -- even in the face of hardship.

Mahatma Gandhi once said, "When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it…: always."

May his words continue to be true. Ken yehi ratzon. So may it be God's will. Amen.