To Repair The World
September 27th, 2006
The Jewish New Year began on Friday, September 23rd at sundown. I learned that this year, Rosh Hashana happens to coincide with Ramadan. Led by our rabbi, we stood and sang for Shalom, peace throughout the world. Over and over again, our songs and prayers hoped for a better world, in which kindness, justice, and compassion prevailed over dogmatism, selfishness and cruelty.
Freedom is knowing deep in our marrow that we are inter-connected. Community is organic and love is a verb. We held hands with our neighbors. We picked up their scarves when they fell to the muddy floor of the huge tent under which we sat. I held a child on my lap as her mother went to the port-o-potty for a bathroom break. We dipped freshly backed challah and apples into honey, with the hope that this year should be sweet.
We took a moment to remember those who had died in the past year and those who grieved rose and said Kaddish. We took a moment to acknowledge all the children who attended service; one young red-headed girl gave an impassioned speech for her local food-fund. In her eyes and in her voice I like to think I heard the voice of the future, the heart not afraid to dream big dreams.
As I sat in synagogue in Woodstock, NY, home of hippies, artists, and progressive-thinking people, my heart was full of freedom —full of spontaneity, dance, & wisdom; longing, grief and regrets also.
When synagogue was over, and we trudged through the muddy parking lot, for it had rained and it was damp outside, the people in my car complained about: the mud, the rain, how long the service was, their runny noses, their hunger, the shapes of their noses, the texture of their hair. We had a difficult time deciding where to eat and what.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was free to listen. I was free to respond. I was free to yell and scream. I was free to keep the spirit alive in me, the spirit that one could feel under that damp tent for over 5 hours of prayer. I was free to keep my heart open. Not to be armored and angry and full of fear.
Judaism teaches us it is our duty to— “tikkun ha-olam” — to repair the world. To bear witness to suffering, to hear the cries of pain, and to respond with dignity. The opportunity to do this difficult work is an exercise of freedom. And like any exercise, sometimes it hurts.
By Lisa Grunberger
New York, NY
