SOME THINGS I THINK I THINK
Yesterday I went to the synagogue and actually
entered the building for the first time since Monday, March 16. Wearing a mask,
like a burglar.
It was normal, joyful, eerie, and sad. I sat at
my desk for a few minutes. I took a bag of nuts from the little stash in my
desk drawer. I got the books I needed from my personal library - perfectly
normal. I like normalcy.
And it was a joy to be back in my space, and to
go over the shelves, searching a bit but finding every book I wanted, exactly
where it was supposed to be. My books make me happy. There they were - all my
dependable hard- and soft- and ring- and staple-bound friends.
And that was eerie - everything was exactly
where I had left it on March 16. Even the dust bunnies. Not only in my office,
but nothing had been moved in the social hall or in the sanctuary, except for
Reb Jason's things, since he's there weekly to chant Torah via Zoom. And apparently
nothing had been moved in the kitchens since April 8, when we did our Pesach
Seder takeout meals. That was the last time I'd even been at the building,
though I hadn't gone inside then. It seems that time has stopped in our
buildings. Eerie.
And it made me very sad. Our pre-school with
its smiling teachers and laughing little ones will not re-open until July 1 at
the earliest. The charter school that has been renting space from us is on-line
for the remainder of the school year - when if ever will I see all those
earnest students and feel the buzz of their presence? Our dedicated office and
support staff? I haven't seen them in person since March 13 or 14. No spur of
the moment program planning, no drinking coffee while going over the menu for
this week's Shabbat lunch or discussing the music on the radio or trying to
figure out why the computers are acting strangely again. There’s been no Sunday
religious school in our little “one room schoolhouse”. Nor are there
congregants or curious local students dropping in for a chat, serious or
otherwise. And of course, there have been no communal gatherings, no joining
together in song and prayer and Torah study, no hugs of greeting or condolence,
no handshakes and "mazel tov" and “shalom aleikhem”, no parading with
the Sifrei Torah or walking people through the choreography of the service. Our
beit tefillah, our house of prayer, hears no prayers. Our beit k’nesset, our
house of gathering, sees no gatherings. Our beit midrash, our house of study,
hosts no classes.
There’s been plenty of teleconferencing and
emailing and Zooming. They are otherworldly and insubstantial – ephemeral electrons
and bytes. So we are still “doing” many of our programs. But there has been no
physicality, and if nothing else, Jewish life is of this world, the world of
things and people you can touch and you can feel with all your senses.
This is not how it's supposed to be. And that
is why I am sad. It is what it is.
But I do not despair, because I know we will
get through this. Things will not be the same, even though almost everything above
will return. Some things might well be better than they were before. But they
will not be the same. And … that’s okay and to be expected, actually.
More than 60 years ago, Rabbi Mordecai Waxman, z’l
wrote a book about Conservative Judaism – “Tradition and Change”. We’ll be
getting much more of the latter, some things all-new, some merely different, as
we try to maintain as much as we can of the former, with this understanding –
Judaism and the Jewish people have always been about tradition and change. This
is Judaism – normal and joyful and eerie and sad. Same as it ever was.
Tuesday is Lag B’omer – a date commemorating a
radical and miraculous change of circumstances in the midst of an epidemic,
according to tradition. Also, according to tradition, Lag B’omer is a day to
get married - or to get a haircut. This is Judaism. Same as it ever was. And
that is profound.
