October 2024
In 2018, a group of Shul Orphans came together to solve the problem of where to go for Kol Nidre services. We gathered in a rented room at the old Sportsman’s Lodge with a borrowed torah scroll and a few dozen mahzors. I gave my first High Holy Day drash that night, and another the following year. Then Covid hit and our little community was forced to disband. But I continued to write, once a year, about some small moment of the liturgy that intrigued me or a prayer I wanted to know more about. I grew up with no religious education and around no Jews. This annual drash (“drash” literally means to seek, as in wisdom or learning) has become a tradition for which I am deeply grateful.
Growing up as the only Jews in the neighborhood turned out to be a double blessing: First, because I come to the study of Torah with no preconceived notions. I get to pick and choose, as an adult, how and with whom I study. Second, because I have never been shocked by antisemitism. I spent no time, after October 7th, beating my breast over the revelation of antisemitism in this country or this city or this industry. I spend very little time under the illusion that antisemitism can be eradicated or even beaten down. News alert: the world doesn’t like Jews. Some of the world even hates Jews. Most are just indifferent - and indifference turns out to be worse.
A childhood with no formal religious education didn’t make me less Jewish - for my 16th birthday my grandparents gave me two tiny charms - one Chai, one Star of David - and they lived safely in a little silk pouch in a drawer for many years. I wear both daily now and they are joined by a dog tag necklace for the hostages, a delicate gold charm representing a yellow ribbon for their freedom, the Nova dog tag in honor of those murdered at the Nova music festival and an armful of beaded bracelets demanding “Let Them Go”. I am the Taylor Swift fangirl of war merch. I wear my Jew Junk daily and everywhere. I am aggressively, visibly Jewish. Visible Judaism feels like an act of defiance in a world rife with antisemitism. But visible Judaism has also helped build and fortify a community - some old acquaintances and some completely new friends - all of whom have come together, unified by a common cause - freedom for the hostages, the defense of Israel, and the exposure of antisemitism wherever it persists. As I write this drash from a land a day ahead and miles away, I am struck by a deep gratitude for this community which has grown since October 7th to include new amazing friends - all of whom will come together on this most holy of days.
With love from New Zealand,
L.
YK 5785
Kol Nidre for the Broken Hearted
“The future is the sphere of human freedom, because I cannot change yesterday but I can change tomorrow by what I do today...”
- Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks
The Viddui, in many ways, is the centerpiece of Yom Kippur. Ten times over 25 hours we stand and engage in the repetition of the confessional, forming a fist with our right hand to beat our breast over our heart and confess aloud our sins. With each strike of our fist, we list a series of transgressions. All of them might apply to and weigh heavy on any one of us at any given time - we have slandered, lied, scoffed, disobeyed. One of them weighs heaviest on me this year: Sararnu “we have turned away,” we have ignored our responsibilities. The thought of turning away, the very real possibility that I have ignored my responsibility, weighs heavy every day since October 7th, 2023, the day on which we were all inevitably, inexorably changed. The day on which we became the broken hearted.
WhatsApp and texts began pinging on the evening of October 6th, 2023. It was Shabbat in Los Angeles. By the morning of the 7th, we heard hundreds were dead, several dozen taken hostage. Hour by hour the numbers grew, hour by hour more tears fell as the feeling of helplessness reached desperation. We’re thousands of miles away, we’re not powerful enough or rich enough or famous enough to make a real difference. But 24 hours of tears later, my wise husband challenged me - I may lack the wealth to donate millions or the fame to have high volume reach. But didn’t I know influential people, didn’t I have the passion to make the connections and the clarity to inspire action? Since that moment, every day begins with “what can I do,” and inevitably ends with “have I done enough?”
In the first few months it was easier to know WHAT to do - arrange events for friends and families of hostages - encourage others to get involved, host an event, donate to the Family Forum or Magen David Adom or the FIDF. As the months wore on it became more challenging, harder to tap the pool of the fatigued or disheartened. Harder to answer the question, “have I changed tomorrow for good by what I did today?” Did I turn away? I think about the remaining hostages, about the parents and children and friends and family of the surviving and the deceased. I think about families with no homes to return to, from the kibbutzim in the south to the families in the north, the children who haven’t returned to school, the children who will never return to their parents. I know I am not alone in asking the question “have I done enough”, or in the feeling of coming up short.
And now it is more than one year. I could not imagine on the eve of October 6th, 2023 - when we first heard news that something was happening in Israel - something bigger than the usual red alerts of rockets along the border - that one year later we would still be living with the reality of Israel at war, hostages still in captivity, antisemitism unmasked and raging. I hoped against hope that I would not have to write about the year anniversary because a year would have passed and the hostages would be free and the world would not look like it does. Just as I hoped against hope that all of our hostages would survive.
I was walking the sands of Pakiri Beach on the north island of New Zealand when I heard about Hersh. I say his name, “Hersh,” like he was a friend or my own son. Hersh, Eden, Carmel, Alexander, Almog, Ori: young men and women whose stories I’ve heard and memorized for over a year, young men and women murdered at the hands of Hamas in tunnels under Rafah. This is the paradox of our time: with each breath I felt anger and rage and deep sorrow for the families, and with each breath I appreciated the sun on my face and the community built out of the pain and fear and outrage of the past year. Every day, we say their names aloud - names of strangers who feel like friends - names of friends whose families are now like our own. We believed in our souls that saying their names and telling their stories was doing something to save them, that their names and the energy the letters that spell them could keep them alive. But news comes of these six, and we feel the efforts may be in vain. Too many days of tears, too many days of a constriction around our lungs and heart and stomach and guts. Too many days of feeling completely hopeless - of feeling the extraordinary ache we call broken hearted.
How often, over the past year, have we said we are broken hearted? How often have we heard it said to us? The heart is the only muscle in the human body that does not get sore from exercise. You go for a run or do an intensive workout. The rest of your body may be stiff with pain, but your heart feels just the same. The muscle that just worked double its normal rate is pumping along, doing its job. The heart, despite what it endured on the treadmill or out on the road, continues to beat. Hearts keep beating. That’s what they do, adjusting to the rhythm of your day, doing their job when you’re awake or asleep or even unconscious. Hearts fail for other reasons, be they hereditary or from abuse. But genetic anomalies notwithstanding, hearts, very rarely, actually break. My heart aches in a different way after October 7th, some days more and some less, but it is an ache I don’t want to live without - not while so many are still unsafe in Israel - not while the hostages remain in Gaza.
It is hard to feel so much day in and day out for so long - hard to know how to find balance between the shock and grief we feel day to day. How are we supposed to take a walk on a beach on a sunny day and not feel the crippling existential gravity of the war in Israel? This question was answered for me on the evening of April 14th after dinner with friends in Tel Aviv. It was the night after Iran sent hundreds of missiles toward Israel, all of which were deflected or destroyed. Close to midnight, I left the restaurant and walked from Neve Tzedek to Jaffa. Though the country had been at a standstill just 24 hours before, the streets were bustling - couples holding hands, young people spilling from bars onto the sidewalks and kids doing homework and skateboarding without a parent in sight. Despite threat of full scale attack just 24 hours before, Israelis were living their lives - Jews and Arabs, young and old, men and women out on the street as though nothing had happened. Because life marches forward and sometimes the act of getting out of bed and living a normal life is the act of defiance. Sometimes, simply moving forward is enough. We survive and we thrive - to curl into a ball and stop moving forward is to give up, to allow those who would wish us dead a victory. Sometimes changing tomorrow is as simple as living a full life today. Living a full life means something very different to me after October 7th. A full life is endless news of war and grief AND everyday gifts - a victory at work, a cuddle with a dog, an evening out with friends that includes laughter and love and the unbelievable joy of the wedding of a child. I’ve learned since October 7th that it is not only okay to cry a little every day, it is appropriate. And it is just as appropriate to enjoy the gifts of life, health, a sunny day on a beach, a ridiculous joke, friends we cherish, family we love. Two things can be true. Two things are true. Our hearts ache. Our hearts are full. Being alive is hard. Being alive is an extraordinary privilege to cherish every day. Terrible things happen to people we care about, and sun-baked sand feels amazing on bare feet. I am awake to the world in a way I don’t think I understood before October 7th.
Two months ago, Kaley married Joe in our garden. My inspiring, gorgeous stepdaughter became a wife to her beloved. There are a lot of things to worry about when you’re hosting a wedding in your backyard: did we order enough glassware, will the food be good, what about parking, bathrooms, music and the weather? But none of those things kept me up at night. What kept me up at night was this: Will I be present? Will I be able to bring my full self to the day? How can we celebrate in a time of so much suffering? If I enjoyed myself would I feel guilty? Would I be able to experience the pure thrill of the day unburdened by thoughts of war and hostages and injustice?
The answer is that I didn’t have to - it turns out I could be present, I could feel the joy of their union AND remember the hostages and the war and the hatred - in many ways, my joy was greater because of the awareness of how lucky we are, how special it is to be able to have a Jewish wedding in this time, how meaningful to be surrounded by friends and family. Witnessing the union of two young people in love - two young Jewish people willing to hold hands and walk into the future together with a commitment to keeping a kosher home and upholding the traditions of the Torah - was the ultimate experience of positivity and revolution in a world torn apart by war and antisemitism. To Kaley & Joe, getting married wasn’t an act of defiance at all. It was the next obvious step in a life to be lived together in love. And those of us who love them are invited on their journey. We are blessed.
Changing tomorrow by what we do today is the essence of Judaism and the essence of this moment - we have this moment to be present for one another, this moment to look honestly at our selves and ask, have we done enough or have we turned away. As much as Yom Kippur is about the personal relationship between us and God, a personal confession and atonement not between each other but between us and Adonai, so too is this our opportunity - to be better, to do better, to remember that on this day we ask if we have done enough, but on every day we have to ask ourselves the same question.
So I’m back to the Viddui - back to the issue of Sararnu - to thinking about the moment when we stand and strike fist against flesh over and over again, beating our chests in confession, pounding our hearts as though we could crack open an organ that carries on all of its own accord, beyond our control, for better and for worse. We face this most somber of holidays in community, standing for too long and starving for too long as we do every year, the same but also different. Each year, WE are different. This year, we are different in a new way, having been shattered by news of a war, by the loss of so many lives, by the naked display of pure hatred - mostly pointed at us - and the jarring lack of response from leadership worldwide. This year, every day of this year since October 7th, could be considered a marathon of the will. But somehow, our hearts keep beating. We pick ourselves up like Humpty Dumpty, we put the pieces back together and we go on, stronger in some ways for the adversity. As we stand on brink of this holiest of days - this pure 25 hours of prayer and reflection - I will take my right hand and strike my chest to remind myself not to crack open my heart but to keep it open - to stay awake to the pain and the joy of this past year - to keep reminding myself to not turn away - to keep my heart open to the possibility of what may come in the year ahead and how what I do today may change tomorrow.
G’mar hatimah tova.
