Tuesday, December 28, 2021

Reflections on yet another tragic shooting in Denver.

 Dear Friends,

 

I write this letter while on my Sabbatical.  For the past two and a half weeks I have been recording new music, reading, writing and taking time to relax, ski (despite the less than spectacular snow conditions…), and recharge my physical, emotional and spiritual batteries.  I look forward to returning refreshed and renewed on January 14th for Shabbat Shirah.

 

Unfortunately, tragedy does not take a Sabbatical. It marches on.  Sue and I are currently in Taos, New Mexico with family and friends. We awoke this morning to the news of the horrific series of deadly shootings that took place last night in Denver. As of this writing, four innocent lives have been lost and a policeman is in critical condition – all from gunshot wounds.  The alleged perpetrator is also dead. We grieve for those killed and all who knew them. 

 

There are multiple levels to this tragedy:

 

·       The tragic loss of life.

·       The never-ending national saga of gun violence that we, in Colorado, know all too well.

·       The fact that events such as these, while horrible, no longer have the capacity to shock us anymore. The requisite news stories, press releases, and calls for “thoughts and prayers” will soon die down until the next horrific act of violence occurs and the cycle will repeat itself over and over.

 

In this week’s Torah portion, Vaera, we read of the first seven plagues that God rained down upon Egypt.  A plague can be defined as a phenomenon over which we have no control that impacts society in a disastrous fashion.  As we experience this this second year of COVID-19 and the frightening realities of the Omicron variant, we are all too familiar with the fears, frustrations and insecurities brought on by plague. A key understanding of how plagues impact our lives is that when we first confront them, we feel that we have no way to eradicate or deal with them. 

 

Gun violence, unlike COVID-19, is not a plague. It is a sickness that has permeated every aspect of our lives – but there are clear and concrete ways to eradicate it. Chief among them are sane gun laws and a willingness among our elected officials to end the idolatrous worship of firearms and obeisance to the gun lobby that continues to corrupt our political process.

 

While our constitution enshrines our right to bear arms, too many people have taken this guarantee out of context. The founders of our nation never imagined the technology or the propaganda that would transform a simple right to self-defense into a fanatical obsession with weapons of destruction and the obscene profits derived by Firearms manufacturers and those who work to prevent any sane legislation that protects innocent lives from being snuffed out with the pull of a trigger.

 

I am not opposed to guns. I am, however, very worried that our national obsession with gun-worship will continue to encroach on our ability to create a society where human life is valued more than our possessions or a perceived diminution of basic freedoms.

 

Whether or not this latest tragedy will result in renewed efforts to prevent further gun violence depends on how loud our voices can be as we advocate for sane gun legislation and the recognition that our society and it’s entire moral fabric is threatened by our worship of firearms. Now is a time to both grieve and act. Gun Violence is as much a health crisis as COVID. If you feel as outraged as I do, reach out to your elected officials and let them know.  Our very lives may depend on it.

 

L’Shalom (in Peace),

 

Rabbi Joseph R. Black

Wednesday, December 22, 2021

Drought- A New Poem

 

Drought – © Joe Black – December, 2021

 

Beneath my feet like blackened toast

I hear a crunching sound

With swirling winds that sound like ghosts

While leaves blow all around

The branches rattle with the wind

As dirt is strewn about

The winter sun is low and dimmed

At this time of drought

 

We pray for rain, we beat our breast

All to no avail

We can’t explain but do our best

To try and tell the tale

Of elders born in similar straits 

Who wrestled with their doubt

And puckish gods who swayed their fates

At other times of drought.

 

The patriots and the parasites

The devious and devout

The ancients and the acolytes

Who’d shriek and cry and shout

Those who lived to tell the tale

Those who chose to scream and wail

At clouds above to no avail.

All suffered from the drought

 

The deserts that we occupy aren’t only climate based

When demagogues are deified, and logic is replaced

By pundits and their party line

Who watch their venom sprout

And push the poisons they’ve designed

To profit from the drought

 

Scared souls will do anything

To quench a burning thirst

They’ll change the One they’re worshiping

If passions are well nursed

The tragic lessons of the past

Are easily shut out

The die may be already cast

Unless we end this drought.

Saturday, November 27, 2021

Poem: Wakening

Wakening

November 27, 2021

(C) Joe Black


First I feel their eyes.

     Staring

       Breathless

         Focused 

Before I yawn, stretch, and acknowledge their presence. 


In semi-darkness I reach for wayward glasses pulling aside cocooned sheets


     The touch of a wet nose

     The rush of air stirred by excited tails 

     Fanning the flames of in-between awakening


Whimpers of hunger, love and delight

Pierce the early morning fog 

Building to a crescendo

As they pounce- inches from my face


I breathe deeply and take in 

Small remnants of canine dreams

Running, chasing, protecting and reveling

In dog-yeared time:

    Seven-fold reminders of joy and devotion-

    A delicious invitation to life


I struggle to my feet and shuffle as they leap and dance before me

Eager to greet a new day. 


I reach deep into the bin and pour their food

Then, fetching slippers and coffee 

I give thanks for this dogged devotion. 

 

I am unworthy

Thursday, September 16, 2021

A Letter To My Daughter: Kol Nidre 5782

My Dear Friends,

This past summer, I taught a class called EmanuElders . All of the participants were over the age of 50. According to the Mishnah , when we have experienced 5 decades of life we can give advice to others.  During our 6 sessions together, we studied the book of Ecclesiastes, (or Kohelet) and each participant was given an opportunity to write an Ethical Will – to a family member, a dear friend, or to the community at large. An Ethical Will is a document in which the writer shares the values they want to pass on to their loved ones, community or anyone who cares to read it. The process of sitting down and writing helps us to think about what is truly important in our lives and provides a beautiful way to share a legacy of love and caring with the next generation. If you have never written an ethical will, I would encourage you to do so. You don’t need to be over the age of 50 and I’m happy to talk to anyone who wishes to learn more about the process .

Some of the participants in the EmanuElders class will be presenting their Ethical Wills to the Congregation at our 1st day Sukkot morning services on Tuesday, September 21st at 11:00 AM– outdoors in our tent and congregational Sukkah, and I invite everyone to join us – either in person or online - for what promises to be an inspiring way to begin the festival.

The last time I wrote an ethical will was 27 years ago, when Ethan was born: 

    on Rosh HaShanah; 

    on Labor Day and 

    on his Due date.  

This was the first and only time during the 34 years of my Rabbinate that I was not at Rosh Hashanah services. But 10 days later, on Yom Kippur, I gave a sermon that was both a letter and an ethical will to my newborn son that spelled out my hopes, fears and dreams for his life. I have never written another one since…until now.

As many of you know, next month, our daughter, Elana – Ethan’s older sister - will be standing under the Chuppah with her beloved Greg, and I will have the supreme honor of officiating at their wedding. While I’m told that members of our clergy team have placed bets on how many minutes into the ceremony it will take until I am a blubbering mess – I am committed to making sure that this will not happen and that I will be able to make it through the ceremony without losing it….too much. Their wedding was supposed to have taken place last October, but, like so many others planning weddings, we made the difficult decision to wait another year – hoping that our isolation would be long gone by now and that we would be able to celebrate without any restrictions…. Obviously, the reality of this Pandemic means that we will be taking additional precautions involving proof of vaccines and testing, but we are determined to safely celebrate together no matter what happens. As you can imagine, this has been a central focus of our lives, and so, on this Kol Nidre Eve, I ask you to indulge me as I present my second ethical will – this time to my daughter on the eve of her wedding.

My Beloved Elana,

In less than a month we will be standing together under the Chuppah. Writing this seems almost surreal – how can your mom and I be old enough to have a daughter who will soon be married to the love of her life? We could not have asked for a better son-in-law than Greg – he loves and cares for you, he is brilliant, kind, gentle and funny - and we have grown to love him as another son. Last month, you celebrated your 30th birthday – just about the same age as your mom and I when we were married in Minneapolis 32 and a half years ago. This time of waiting for your wedding have been difficult, and yet, it has also given us an opportunity to step back and think about what is truly important in our lives– and in yours as well. 

I know that I am addressing you in public on this holiest night of the year and that my words will be heard by hundreds, if not thousands of others – so, I will do my best to try not to embarrass you…too much. The truth is, I feel a special responsibility to speak to you before your wedding because you always say that Ethan is our favorite child – I wrote one for him – and so, to even things out you will have one as well.

And for the record, you ARE our favorite daughter…

I must confess, I am glad that you are not here in person– even though right now you are just a few blocks away - watching this service online with our family at our home while you, Greg and Greg’s wonderful mother, Lee are visiting from New York. I don’t think I would be able to get through these words if you were sitting here in this sanctuary. As my colleagues will tell you, I have found that the older I get, the harder it becomes to hold back tears – and not only at intense times like tonight, but at silly ones as well – like watching TV commercials or hearing songs from my childhood. I also find myself weeping during powerful moments – like Rabbi Hyatt’s amazing Erev Rosh Hashanah sermon – or at especially poignant life-cycle events. But increasingly, I also tend to get choked up at weddings….. Every time I’m blessed to stand under a Chuppah with a couple, I can’t help but picture you and Greg – surrounded by the most important people in your life – seeing the love, excitement, and joy that you both radiate when you are together. But I promise that I will do everything I can to hold it together at your wedding – at least through the ceremony.


Lani – I don’t need to tell you that it’s hard to be a rabbi’s kid. Throughout your childhoods, you and Ethan have often been in the spotlight. I’ve written, spoken, and sung about you in public. You’ve been the subject of many a sermon. You are often prominently featured in my social media posts. Lots of people know things about you – and you have no idea who man of them are - especially in a congregation like Temple Emanuel that is so big and that truly loves and wants to be part of the lives of their clergy. Eleven years ago, when we moved to Denver, you were a sophomore in college – living away from home. Even though we set up a bedroom for you and filled it with your stuff, you only lived here full time for a few months one summer. As such, Denver and Temple Emanuel really don’t feel like home to you – and that makes us a little sad. But - you’re a New Yorker now – and I have never seen you more fulfilled. So, in the balance, mom and I are happy for you; and besides – we now have an awesome place to stay when we come to New York.


Lani - there have been too many times when the demands of my rabbinate have meant that I had to miss some of your important occasions. But, as often as I was called away, I also have powerful memories of when we were all together – moments that were as ordinary as driving to school, sharing meals, or going on vacation.  But there were also times that were transitional and transformative – that shaped you – and that shaped your mother and me as well– while we watched in wonder as you took on challenges and set off for new adventures that forever changed your life. Sometimes they were joyous –and sometimes they taught you (and us) painful but important lessons:

    Your first day of Kindergarten

    Watching you chant Torah beautifully at your Bat Mitzvah

    Your frustrations and triumphs in gymnastics

    Middle school…(enough said…)

    Travelling to Israel for the first time to study for a semester abroad

    High School Graduation

    Dropping you off at College

    Graduating from College

    The ups and downs of relationships 

    Moving to New York and finding your artistic and professional passions

    And soon, you will be standing under the chuppah with your bashert – your beloved  - Greg.

You may not have even been aware– but during those moments, time felt like it was standing still for us – as though a doorway into some unseen corridor had opened and Mom and I stepped back and watched as something wondrous – something holy – was taking place that was beyond our comprehension. 

Philosophers and Anthropologists have a name for moments of transition and wonder that take us away from the conscious world into moments of in-betweenness.  It’s called the “Liminal.”

Liminality is a term used to describe the psychological process of transitioning across boundaries and borders . The root “limen” comes from the Latin for threshold; it is literally the place in the wall where people move from one room to another. In anthropology and religious studies, liminality is defined as the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a rite of passage, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the rite is complete.  

    The moment just before a bar or bat mitzvah is called to the torah for the first time; 

    The instant that a glass is placed on the ground just before it is shattered at a wedding; 

    The seconds before the first cry of a newborn baby

    The painful sound of dirt hitting a coffin at a grave 


…these are all moments of liminality .

In a very real sense, Lani, these past 18 months of dealing with the pandemic have brought us all to a liminal place and time where we are constantly not what or where we were, yet also not where we needed to be. We have all been caught in the “in betweenness” of waiting, worrying, and wondering if we will ever be able to get back to normalcy – whatever “normal” might mean.

I know you Lani – you don’t do well with ambiguity. At work, you have been given a lot of responsibility to oversee and create big projects - and you’re incredibly good at what you do. You love to meet deadlines and you are happiest when there are few surprises. Patience is not your strong suit. You have an elaborate vision for your wedding, and it will be beautiful and holy – but there are so many factors that are out of our control right now that every one of your buttons are being pushed on a daily basis.

As your father, I wish I could wave a magic wand and assure you that everything will be perfect – but I can’t. Sue, Lee, and I will do everything in our power to make your day perfect – and, truth be told, it will be perfect – not because of the flowers, or the band, or the food, or your dress, or even who can or cannot come – but because you both will be there – and your love is something stronger than any ceremony.

The Torah portion that we will be reading tomorrow begins with the words:

Atem Nitzavim Hayom – Kulchem…”- “You are all standing here today…before Adonai Your God .”

A lesson I’ve taught before is that the Hebrew word, Nitzavim does not only mean “standing” – it means standing at attention, alert – open, aware, and prepared for whatever comes next. To stand “Nitzavim” means that we have stepped outside of the now and entered liminal space and time. At the end of the parasha, when Moses tells the people: “I call Heaven and Earth to witness before you this day…choose Life!” the Torah uses a rhetorical device called a Merism that contrasts two extremes to emphasize the power of the moment.  In this case, everything that exists between the Heavens and the Earth (which is everything…) is frozen in time as all of Creation is impacted by God’s presence and power.

Tonight is the holiest night of the year. On Kol Nidre everything is supposed to come sharply into focus. The next 24 hours are about stopping all that we do.  We pause. We reflect. We fast. We refrain from daily pleasures and tasks. We remember. We stand, “Nitzavim” as our actions, shortcomings, hopes, and dreams are paraded in front of us. We pledge to do better in the year to come.

Many people chose to wear White on Yom Kippur. Some people choose to wear a Kittel  – a special white, robe-like garment that that is traditionally worn on three occasions:

    At your wedding – standing under the Chuppah

    On Yom Kippur

    At your funeral – as a burial garment.

Why these three occasions?  Because – our tradition tells us – this is when we are closest to God – when we have the clearest picture of the holiness that has been gifted to us – as well as the fragility of life itself.

This day teaches us to focus on what is truly important in our lives:  It’s not about what we have, but who we are. It’s not about what we do – but who we do it with. In the liminal moments of our lives – right now- we are given both an obligation and an opportunity: to look deeply into ourselves and our souls and assess the status of our relationships, our values, and our contributions to society. If we find ourselves lacking in any of these areas (and all of us are…), we are called to perform acts of Teshuvah – of turning – of repentance.

Lani – I know I haven’t always been able to be there for you when you needed me.  For that, I ask your forgiveness. I need it. But I would also ask you – and everyone listening to these words tonight - to focus on the holy work that we all need to do- and consider where we may have strayed and missed the mark.

Each year, on Kol Nidre – I urge everyone to find ways to make amends – to fix what is broken in our relationships and our lives. This day is a gift – a moment of liminality during which we are charged and challenged to change. If viewing the brokenness in our lives, our relationships, and our world does not drive us to alter our course and perform the sacred act of teshuva – then we are not living up to the necessity of Nitzavim. 

And so, I say to you tonight, my dear daughter – whom I love so much - and to everyone listening or reading these words: Choose Life. Make Amends. Work to fix the brokenness that is all around us. If the past 18 months have taught us nothing else, we know just how fragile and precarious our lives can be – and how our expectations can easily disintegrate in front of our eyes. When all is said and done, what sustains us during the difficult times are not our possessions, but our passions; not where we live, but who we love; not what we acquire, but how we aspire to be better, not the goals we set before ourselves, but the sacred souls that give our lives meaning and purpose every day.  And so, I implore us all, once again: 

    Tell the people you love that you love them.  

    Reach out to those who need you.  

    Ask for help from those who want nothing more than to be there for you.

    Make amends with those who have hurt you – and to those whom you have hurt as well.  

    Find ways to make a difference and try to bring healing to our world.

Our task – at this liminal moment of vulnerability and accountability is to seek the holiness in our lives and work to make our world better.

The Kol Nidre prayer that we heard so hauntingly beautifully chanted by Cantor Sacks and stunningly performed by our choir and musicians is always recited just before Sunset.  The timing is important. It cannot be light, and it cannot be dark. A story is told of a rabbi who asked her students, “How do we know the moment when night ends and day begins?” One student suggested, “Is it when a person can distinguish a sheep from a dog in the distance?” “No, “said the rabbi, it is not.” A second student ventured, “Is it when one can distinguish a date tree and a fig tree from afar?” “It is not that either,” she replied. “Please tell us the answer,” her students begged, “How can we determine when night has ended, and day begun?” “It is when you look into the face of a stranger and see your sister or brother,” said the rabbi. “Until then, night is always with us.”

My Dearest Elana – and everyone with us tonight – the next 24 hours will give us all an opportunity to step away from our daily lives and shed light on what is most important in our lives. Let us use these liminal moments to resolve that we will make connections and forge new pathways of learning, growth, and self-exploration. May we all work to find the holiness in ourselves and those around us. May our prayers bring us closer to God and to one another.

Lastly, I promise that I won’t make you the centerpiece of another sermon…for a while at least. I’ll save the next ethical will for our Grandchildren.    

No pressure…. 

Love,

Dad


Saturday, September 11, 2021

Amalek and 9/11 – 20 Years Later - September 10, 2021

 Dear Friends,

There are moments in our lives that define us – as individuals, as a nation and as a people. Once we experience them, we are forever changed, and the impact of these experiences shapes our future for generations.

·        I was not alive on December 7, 1941 when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. 

·        I vaguely remember November 22, 1963 – the day that JFK was assassinated. 

·        But I vividly remember Yom Kippur  -- 5734 – October 6, 1973 – when Israel barely survived a surprise attack by her neighbors.

·        I remember November 19th, 1977 – when Anwar Sadat stepped off an airplane onto the tarmac of Ben Gurion Airport.

·        I remember January 28, 1986 when the Space shuttle Challenger, exploded in midair.

·        I remember November 4, 1995 -- when Yigal Amir murdered Yitzhak Rabin in cold blood.

·        And we all remember how, 18 months ago, we closed the doors of our synagogues, schools, business and sheltered in place in order to protect ourselves from COVID 19…..

These moments have defined us and will continue to do so throughout our lives. Anyone over the age of 26 probably remembers exactly where you were twenty years ago tomorrow - on September 11, 2001 as we watched images of terror play out in real time.  As we sat and cried out in disbelief and anger when pure hatred showed itself – with the destruction of the twin towers; the gaping hole in the side of the pentagon; and the carnage and bravery on that lonely field in Pennsylvania – our lives were changed in an instant – our nation was changed – nothing was the same.

As I thought about what I would say tonight on this auspicious anniversary, I remembered words from the book of Deuteronomy  that we read three weeks ago that speak about how we are commanded to remember and deal with the memories of our enemies – in particular the arch-enemy of the Israelites – Amalek. These words are also read on the Shabbat before Purim – called Shabbat Zachor – Haman was a descendant of Amalek.

The Amalekites waged a war of terror on the children of Israel as they fled slavery in Egypt. They did not attack the soldiers. They attacked the weak and tired stragglers at the back of the camp. Like all terrorists, their goal was to incite fear and panic by inflicting as much harm on innocent civilians as possible.

In Deuteronomy 25: 17-18, we find the following:

1.     Remember (zachor) what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt...

2.     You shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven.

3.     Do not forget!

Three commandments:  Remember.  Blot out.  Don’t forget!

These three commands, on the surface, seem to be contradictory – Remember to forget! Blot out to remember!  Don’t forget to stop forgetting and remembering….It’s confusing.  It doesn’t make sense.  But if we look closely, these words have a vitally important message for all of us – especially on this 20th anniversary of our national tragedy.

This first commandment is ZachorRemember. This weekend is a time of remembering.  We remember that fateful day, 20 years ago that changed our world.

But how should we remember?  What are the proper ways to hold on to something so awful, so painful, so life-changing? 

The answer is by telling our stories.

We Jews are well versed in the art of remembering - of recalling our pain.  Every year on Pesach we tell the story of slavery that led to redemption.  On Yom HaShoah we remember those who perished in the madness and horror of Hitler’s final solution.  On Chanukah, Purim, and Yom Ha-Atzmaut we remember and retell our history – the battles, struggles, triumphs and tragedies. On the 9th day of the Hebrew month of Av – Tisha B’av – we fast as we commemorate our loss and the destruction of the 1st and 2nd Temples. Even at our most joyous moment – under the Chuppah – we break a glass to recall the suffering of our people. By talking about what we, as a people have experienced, we create a sacred narrative that becomes part of our very being.

The events of September 11, 2001 have become inexorably linked with our national consciousness.  To remember that day - to tell the painful stories of our past; of bravery and battle; of courage and compassion – is to affirm both the fact that we were not defeated by terror – but also to acknowledge that we have been changed.

The second Commandment tells us to “….blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven.”

Is this wise? Can we truly erase a memory?

We tell our stories to accept the realities that lie in front of us.  For some, the act of remembering is a path towards healing.  For others, however, it serves a different, perhaps more devious purpose.  When the act of telling our story is used as a tool to invoke and provoke fear or anger or despair by erasing parts of our history – what remains can be used to manipulate and control. The image of the collapsed Twin Towers – once a symbol of power and prosperity – has, all too often, over the last twenty years –been used to create a sense of panic and unease – to cast doubts on our strength as a nation.  It has also been used as a rallying cry for isolationism disguised as patriotism. 

To do this is to desecrate the memories of those who died on that day and in the conflicts and catastrophes that have followed.  If this twenty-year anniversary is about healing – and I believe it must be – then we, as a nation and as individuals, must move beyond the emotions of September 11, 2001 – and find a way to utilize the sense of national unity, pride and strength that we felt as we gazed upon the ashes of destruction and vowed to rebuild.

How do we remember and erase a memory at the same time? A close reading of the biblical text offers an insight into specifically what is to be remembered, and what is to be forgotten. "Remember what Amalek did to you," followed by "blot out the memory of Amalek from under the heavens." This, our tradition teaches, suggests that we are to remember our experiences (where we were when we heard, the images of the falling towers, the names of those who were lost), but we do not focus on the enemy itself: we shun from dwelling on the sick strategies of the murderers, or their story, glorifying them through conspiracy theories or turning them into martyrs. On the other hand, we also are not to use their evil to create demonic stereotypes of all Muslims.  It was their narrow-minded hatred – not their faith that drove them to kill.

When, 10 years ago, our Navy Seals tracked down and killed Bin Laden, far too many people rejoiced in the streets.  I was troubled by this reaction.  While Bin Laden’s death brought some closure and, perhaps, dealt a powerful blow to his followers - as a nation, we should never rejoice in the death of others.  This  cheapens us.  Some might say that it puts us in the same category as our enemies  who cheered when the towers fell.

Last month, as we saw the last American troops leaving Afghanistan – ending our nation’s longest war - we also saw the triumphant Taliban taking their place. While the world is unquestionably safer today than it was when we first went to war, we do not know what the future will bring. Were we successful? Were the trillions of dollars spent, thousands of lives lost, countless personal freedoms stripped away and our international reputation devastated as a result of that war worth it? Only time will tell. War is messy – especially when the ends are far removed from the original intent.

The commandment to blot out the memory of Amalek teaches us that we should focus on his conduct – not his character.  This does not mean, of course that we turn a blind eye to the dangers of Islamic fundamentalism – of course not. With the Taliban back in power in Afghanistan, new dangers await. The unfortunate realities of the world in which we live means that we must remain vigilant and prepared.  But it does mean that we also should focus on finding ways to strengthen our society.  Rather than looking for devils in the debris, we should search for heroes in our homes, our synagogues, our halls of legislation.

Another way to blot out the memory of Amelek is to seek ways to quell the potential for evil that resides in each of us.  Especially during this Shabbat Shuvah – when we have emerged from welcoming in a New Year and we now anticipate the solemnity and power of Yom Kippur - we are acutely aware of our own shortcomings.  The best way to defeat evil is to see it in ourselves and not allow it to control us and how we see the world.

The final commandment in this passage is “LO TISHKACH” – do not forget.  How do we remember and not forget? My nephew, Rabbi Ari Hart, writes the following:  

“The Ramban again offers insight when he writes that zachor, remember, happens with the mouth through speech, but lo tishkach, don't forget, happens with the heart. According to the Ramban, telling the story with only cognitive awareness is insufficient -- we must experience the loss. For some, like those who lost loved ones, there's no way to avoid the heart when remembering tragedy: there is no day, anniversary or not, when they do not feel the pain. Others fortunate to not experience that constant pain must find ways to connect to the memory in both our heads and our hearts. This ensures that we don't just learn from trauma on an intellectual level but that we internalize the lessons into our hearts and will, transforming how we act in the world.”

In other words, when we turn our hearts to the process of “not forgetting” – we are also making a pledge to take that memory and use it to guide us in envisioning and creating a society that truly reflects our highest ambitions and attributes.

Remember. Blot Out. Do not forget.

These three ancient, seemingly strange and contradictory ways of memorializing trauma in a collective consciousness offer profound insights into how to respond to trauma. On this 20th anniversary of 9/11, may we find ways to do all three, telling our stories to bring healing, erasing evil around and within us, and integrating the trauma's unique truths into our fullest selves. May we learn from our pain and work to repair this all-too imperfect world.

May we all be blessed with a year filled with growth, renewal and hope for a better future.

L’Shanah Tovah Tikateyvu V’Tecychateymu – May we all have a good year – filled with healing and blessing - and may we be written and sealed into the Book of Life for the future.

Amen - Ken Yehi Ratzon