Two Unique Events Mark Coming of Tishrey
From the November 2001 Beit Tikvah Newsletter

I attended, among others, two unique religious events in September, during the month of Elul, the month designated for spiritual preparations for the coming month of Tishrey, with all of its holy days.
     One was held on the evening of September 11. There were candles on an altar placed before the ark. There were clergy who wore kippot, clergy who wore vestments and stoles. One carried a Bible and read from the gospel. Music came from a guitar, a piano, spontaneous harmonies to a familiar lullaby, and strong hymn singing.
      The other one took place two days after Labor Day. There were no ritual objects in sight. There were no clergy officiating, no formal prayers recited, and the music, secular and boisterous, was boosted by clapping and lively, spontaneous dancing.
      The location of the former was the Interfaith center in Columbia, where Jewish and Christian clergy who represent some of the congregations that worship there gathered for an Interfaith Prayer Vigil hours in response to the events of that morning. Many poignant and heartfelt words were offered. I remember very few of them, but I will always retain the images, the feelings, the collective sense of utterly sharing from the same pool of grief, shock, and a host of other emotions.
      Now, the previous week's event wasn't really billed as a religious event at all, yet it also held profound ritual and spiritual significance. Beit Tikvah members Ray and Diane Wacks, who are members of the Baltimore Klezmer Orchestra, the "band-in-residence" at Baltimore Hebrew University, brought the band out to the Charlestowne retirement community. They perform at community events and senior centers around town, but on this particular occasion, they had a special audience member in mind - our past co-president, Harry London.
      They brought Yiddishkayt to life through music and song, lighting the faces and filling the hearts of all present. No one could resist the infectious rhythms and lively tunes; even the more contemplative melodies were uplifting. Everyone's spirit was touched that night, including mine. While I do indeed remember some of the actual songs, since Yiddish music is one of my great joys, the memory serves more as a source of illustration, and inspiration, for a reflection on a core value for this congregation, and our role in the shifting landscape of national values.
      On the way home from that September 11 prayer vigil, I drove past a Reform Temple, where cars were pulling out of the parking lot following their gathering. I drove by an Orthodox shul, where folks were spilling out onto the sidewalk, back into their cars, walking back to their homes. There was the sense that everywhere, communities, families and friends were gathering together.
      The need, even the compulsion, to respond communally to the events of that catastrophic day was clear and widespread. No matter the distance from New York City, Washington D.C., or Pennsylvania, very single community in this country, religious, civic, or otherwise, was "called" to reflection, and then, to action.
      Many have been compelled by a sense of identification with the victims, the rescuers, their families; by a sense that it could have easily been us in one of those places; that it may be us in the future, so that we must respond with help, support and action, as we would want others to respond to our need. These are not responses that I am judging, but rather identifying as elements that drive us to connect with an event such as we have witnessed.
      Some have asked me: but rabbi, millions/thousands/untold victims in Rwanda/Bosnia/innumerable regional conflicts have been killed/tortured/subject to ongoing travails, and we have not lifted ourselves up in response ….. why don't we identify with the suffering and loss of those tragedies?
      I want us to consider this: how can we open ourselves up to the need for caring and healing in our midst, neither inure ourselves to, nor be overtaken by, the palpable sense of crisis in our country, and live up to our calling as a caring community?
      During Sukkot, we are supposed to be reminded of our fragility at a time of year, so close to the mythic near-death experience we undergo during Yom Kippur. That we step out of secure shelter to do so only heightens the contrast between where we were as a people, who, we retell in Torah, dwelt in flimsy shelters in their desert wanderings, and where others remain today, year round.
      My fervent hope is that September's tragedy serves to heighten our sense of interconnectedness with all those whose "shelter" is perpetually "fragile," that we should empathetically embrace the fragility of those closest to us whose sense of security is challenged on an ongoing basis - by ill health, by a paucity of opportunity, by loneliness, by the various medical and social pandemics that seem to be with us always.
      During the ‘80s - dubbed the "me-decade, " we read often about the NIMBY phenomenon. The acronym, for "Not In My BackYard," embodied the selfish, consumption-driven lifestyle of a complacent middle class, propelled to protect its interests - not to mention property values.
      I'd love to see us - right here in Baltimore, right here at Beit Tikvah, right in our neighborhoods, schools, workplaces, and shopping places - be at the forefront of a RIMBY movement. Right In MY BackYard. Let us declare: THIS is where I'm going to make a difference, THIS is where we can bring our caring, our yearning to make a difference.
      Those seniors at Charlestowne? They might not have known it, but they were at a religious event. But I knew it. Let's make many, many more of them happen.