D'var Torah

Over the past few weeks, I’ve become an avid listener of “All There Is,” Anderson Cooper’s excellent podcast about navigating grief. Now in its second season, the podcast features a variety of conversations between Cooper and others who have experienced loss (and sometimes, who also spend their professional lives working with others who are navigating loss). The conversations are often full of a lot of wisdom. In a recent conversation on the podcast, the psychotherapist Francis Weller observed in part that community can be one of the most important supports for us as we navigate grief over time:

"When we're asked to carry [grief] alone privately, we end up carrying it around [like] a U-Haul dragging this weight behind us. And in that privatization, in that sense of having to sequester my grief within my own being, I feel like I'm all alone in this. And that's one of the most intolerable places for the soul to be.”

Here at TRS, we have been hearing from so many of you in recent weeks about what it is like to be living through this moment in American, Jewish, and world history. For many of us, there is a lot of fear, uncertainty — and also grief. Grief for people we love, and for people we’ve never even met but feel a connection to — and also, perhaps, grief for the world many of us thought we lived in before October 7, a world that was a little gentler than this one. And in our grief, many of us have also been experiencing some amount of loneliness. 

In the weeks since October 7, a number of moving songs have been produced in Israeli society, as artists — along with other community members — have navigated their grief. One of these songs, לא לבד (“lo levad” — meaning "not alone") by Jane Bordeaux, contains haunting descriptions of empty kibbutzim, followed by a powerful chorus: 

"We’ll all reach out a hand
we are not alone
partners in fate — pain and love — as one people."

It can be hard to reach out a hand! And hard, as well, to notice when other hands are reaching out, to us. 

Earlier this week at TRS, we hosted a powerful conversation between Shir Nosatzki (an Israeli Jew) and Hanan Alsanah (an Israeli Arab Bedouin) of the Joint Jewish-Arab Emergency Relief Center, an effort they created together in the wake of October 7. It was deeply moving to learn about their solidarity work — and all they have already achieved together. One of the things they spoke of was the importance of answering horrifying acts of inhumanity — like the October 7 attacks — with powerful acts of empathy, solidarity, and humanity. And they also spoke of the power of acting together.

It reminded me of the many interfaith partners we’ve heard from here in Northern Virginia, who have reached out to share that they want to be in solidarity with our community as we navigate experiences of antisemitism. And it reminded me, as well, of the opportunities we all have to be in solidarity with communities in the U.S. that are experiencing Islamophobia, and other forms of hate — to connect with each other, to reach out, to try to build back a world that’s gentler than this one. Even, or especially, as we grieve.

Near the end of לא לבד, Jane Bordeaux sings: “For those who have not yet returned, we will be a beacon — we’ll light a great light here, until they return to us.” It is a moving tribute to people still held hostage. And it also holds echoes of a popular Israeli Chanukah song, באנו חושך (Banu Choshech), which includes the words: “כל אחד הוא אור קטן, וכולנו אור איתן’ (kol echad hu or katan/v’kulanu or eitan) —— each one of us is a little light, but together we are a mighty light — together, we shine bright. 

We will have so many opportunities to light lights together, this Chanukah — starting tonight at 5:30 PM on Zoom, and continuing through the weekend, and beyond. May we draw strength from each other, and reach out to one another, this week and beyond — remembering that together, we shine bright. 

Rabbi Alexander Stein