It is Shabbat Vayera, and as we prepare ourselves for the Amidah, Meir speaks to us about the power of silence. My understanding of his words, which naturally move through the prism of my world view, tell me this: 'You can do battle with your fear of annihilation through the practice of silence.'
Three steps back and three steps forward and I enter a world in which I am instructed to gently hold my fear alongside my deep gratitude; Here is an approach to the Amidah that resonates for me. Fear, like any emotion that rocks us to the core, is first a call to the practice of pausing. And, in the pause of prayer, I can observe myself and stand back from the impulse to react. If I listen well enough, perhaps God will speak to me. With this kavannah, this intention, I just might be able to begin to understand my fears, including the fear of persecution with which so many of us are afflicted. Perhaps, standing before God, I can practice the ultimate and most precious gift I will ever give to God or to a human being: presence.
On this day as we study the Akedah, Roly and Marcelo suggest that I challenge the central wound of my Jewish psyche: the belief that annihilation is just around the corner. I am not Isaac bound and ready for sacrifice. Knives are not everywhere. I may sometimes feel that they are, but feelings do not constitute reality.
My job then is to balance realism, to struggle with complex political realities and to leave room for the belief that my people can overcome the psychological legacy of victimization. I look around the globe and can see that we have enemies and that there are ways in which we are still made the scapegoat of current affairs. This profound tragedy breaks my heart and defies reason. Sadly, there are those who cannot separate Judaism, our history, religious practices, culture, tradition, literature, music, art and people-hood, from the tragedy of current Israeli policy in the territories. We are not a monolithic group, but a people constantly wrestling with God and every aspect of God's creation.
I must remember this: the anxiety and consuming nature of vigilance leaves a human being and a people emotionally paralyzed. If I am frozen with fear and the expectation of disaster and spend my energy guarding my psyche and body, I will not have the capacity to be present for others. If I am to flourish, and if, by extension, the Jewish people are to flourish, we must stop assuming that a knife will inevitably descend upon us from every angle and every hand and corner of the globe.
This reflection upon my now rare and treasured experience of tefillah and study at BJ, is a kind of report from the field. It reflects my continuing internal journey as a Jew and emerges from my experience of living in North Carolina, where I have made my home for the past three and half years. The move south happened to coincide with the start of the second Intifada, and since that time "praying with my feet," something I learned from Abraham Joshua Heschel, has meant working to create opportunities for American Jews to engage in dialogue on the subject of Israel and Palestine and to tolerate the deep pain such dialogue brings. This is the activism that I am called to do and for me, it goes to the very core of what it means to me to be a Jew and to be present in the world.
It was one year after the beginning of the second Intifada and the beginning of my southern life, when a friend and I called a meeting for Jews who wanted to try and foster dialogue in our community. We did form a group, Jews for a Just Peace - NC, and it is with these Jewish activists that I have prayed with my feet and built the haverah that most reflects my dreams for the healing of our world. Most recently we hosted Itzchak Frankenthal and Ghazi Brigieth both from the Parents' Circle (an organization of bereaved Palestinians and Israelis who have lost loved ones), pushing our community, in every venue possible, to practice listening to one another. I am filled with gratitude to be a part of this haverah: a group that is anything but monolithic in its beliefs; unafraid to shake the status quo; skilled at listening; experienced at organizing; determined to overthrow our victim patterns; and welcoming of (if not always comfortable with) silence.
At the very end of services on 20 Heshvan, Marcelo made a plea for all of us, the members of B'nai Jeshurun, and to Jews everywhere. The message, again filtered through my worldview, was very clear: practice pausing; be present before God; listen to one another with respect; give up the attachment to the victim role; and most of all do not shy away from doing battle with your own hopes, fears and heartbreak. This is the way to celebrate and preserve the very best of Judaism.
– Marjorie Scheer
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