A Time to Embrace and a Time to Refrain from Embracing: Challenges & Silver Linings from the Pandemic
I am reminded of my first day of “liberation,” having recovered from my bout with COVID-19. My loving and attentive doctor called me each morning during my seventeen days of being homebound, and then came the news I had long awaited. “Ok, Merri. You have now been symptom free for 5 days, so tomorrow morning I pronounce you free!” I remember how grateful I was to have made it to the other side of this mysterious illness. And yet, I also remember thinking, “Great … but free to do what exactly?” No place to go, no one to be with, my husband still recovering from his bout with the virus.
But free at last, I opened my front door and emerged. That early spring morning, on April 4, the birds were chirping in a way I had never heard before. Flowers were blooming in colors more vibrant than I remember having ever seen, and two ducks were swimming in the brook behind my house, a rare sighting to be sure! Like so many of you I imagine, I was awake in a way I had rarely experienced. There were no distractions, no train schedules to meet, no appointments to keep, and a powerful hunger to engage in all that surrounded me that morning, to be present to all of it!
Most of my professional career has been centered around questions concerning communal worship and communal song: How does one create worship that has meaning for one’s community? How do we engage the communal voice on this journey? What are the texts and melodies that feed this yearning for sacred community and draw us closer to the Divine?
“We are all needier than ever, more isolated, more vulnerable. We are fearful of what the future might bring. These are all emotions that our liturgy can speak to and has spoken to for thousands of years in a vital and poignant way.”
During this time of pandemic, and societal outrage and distress, these questions take on a whole new meaning. We are all needier than ever, more isolated, more vulnerable. We are fearful of what the future might bring. These are all emotions that our liturgy can speak to and has spoken to for thousands of years in a vital and poignant way. And yet, somehow everything feels different. The words and melodies take on new meaning, and I am left with new questions and new understandings.
“U-vayom hashvi-i shavat vayinafash.” [Exodus 31:16-17] We sing these words every Shabbat. (“And on the seventh day God ceased from work and was refreshed.”) It was in the stopping … the slowing down… that God was “vayinafash,” able to connect to God’s nefesh, God’s soul. It was then and only then, that God could say, “Hine tov m’od.” [Genesis 1:31] “This is very good.” Lynn Ungar, a Unitarian Universalist minister, writes of the pandemic, “What if you thought of it as the Jews consider the Sabbath – the most sacred of times?” Shabbat offers us a time to cease from our daily routine, a time to breathe, and a time to give thanks. So too, this pandemic has provided us, if nothing else, a time to slow down, a time to reflect, and a time to notice. A silver lining of sorts, amidst all the loss.
“Kol han’shama t’hallel Yah.” [Psalm 150:6] (“Every soul, every breath, praises God.”) This text has been set to so many melodies, and sung by our communities, time and time again. We are taught that this gift of breath is a gift, indeed. We inhale, we exhale … and then we are “breathed” yet again. We need not summon that breath, work for that breath. In fact, we have no choice but to accept that breath. It is a gift. And we praise God for that gift of breath. Yet during these past few months, we are struck by another image of the word “breath” - the image of not being able to breathe. We think of those who have had to withstand the most deleterious effects of this virus, fighting for each breath, often in need of a ventilator to assist them. And yet another image, impossible to erase, is that of George Floyd’s pleas during those 8 minutes and 46 seconds. “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.” And so, I stood before my community on the Friday night following Mr. Floyd’s death and I asked myself, “How do we pray this Shabbat?”
From Psalm 92:1, “Mizmor shir l’yom hashabbat.” (“A sacred song for Shabbat.”) How can we sing? From Psalm 95:1, “L’chu n’ran’na l’Adonai.” (“Come, let us sing joyously to God.”) Where can we find the joy?
From our liturgy, “B’chol eit uv’chol shaah bish’lomecha.” (“In every season and in every hour, with Your peace.”) Where can we find that respite, that peace? How can I ask my congregation to sing songs of joy and gratitude and praise amidst this paradox: gratitude for each breath we are given and the horror of knowing that this breath can be stolen, taken away? What are the words and the melodies that will speak to us tonight?
How will any of these words ring true? Can I speak these words with conviction when like so many of us I am feeling hopeless and frightened? The Psalmist writes “Mi ma-amakim karaticha Adonai.” [Psalm 130] (“Out of the depths I call You, O God.”) This is how I will pray these words tonight … with my entire being, with all of my heart, and all of my pain, and yes, even all of my doubt. For, amidst it all, we are loved by an unending love … a great love… a forever love. This love is at the center of our liturgy. We pray “Ahava rabbah ahavtanu” every morning – (“How deeply you have loved us, O God”) and “Ahavat olam beit Yisrael amcha ahavta,” every evening – (“Everlasting love you have offered Your people, Israel.”) Being made b’tzelem Elohim, (in the image of God,) this love not only flows toward us, but also flows outward from within us.
During these past months, we have been awakened to the depth of this capacity to love. I am keenly aware of the great love that I have in my life - to not be alone, but rather to be “sheltered in place” with the love of my life, my life partner. Yet we have also been struck by the incredible loss of not being able to be with those we love: a time when we cannot hug a sibling or friend, when we cannot cradle a grandchild, when we cannot hold a sick parent in our arms, or mourn the loss of someone we loved, standing arm and arm with our family members. How constricted this can feel; how “heart -breaking.” But as our tradition teaches us, we are loved by an unending love. And we try to take some comfort in knowing that.
Surely, this pandemic has shone a light upon the inequities in our society, and the work that we must do to right these wrongs. But, it has also shone a light on how deeply we can love - how we can act like God and be like God - b’tzelem Elohim - through the loving compassion shown by our front line workers. We have seen how deeply we can love through people donning masks to protect not only themselves but others too, and through caring neighbors reaching out to people who need food, who need people to shop for them, people to check in on them.
We read in Kohelet, “There is a time for embracing, and a time to refrain from embracing.” [Ecclesiastes 3:5] Yes, this is a time in which we need to be mindful about how we embrace and whom we embrace. But, I would caution, this is not a time to refrain from embracing. This is a time to look even deeper into the words and the melodies we pray and embrace the new meanings we can cull from them. From Hosea 14:3, “K’chu imachem d’varim.” (“Take with you these teachings.”) We need to take these teachings to heart. For in these teachings we can find comfort, we can find direction, and we can find our way home - home to those sacred communities we are blessed to be a part of, and in so doing, draw ourselves even closer to one another. Ken y’hi ratzon. “May it be so.”
