Binding Chains & Pekudei
So, the Jewish Communist funeral from last week…
Just before I left the house in the morning, my husband, assessing my attire, asked, “Don’t you have a red scarf for your head?” (You know, for a Communist funeral, instead of the normal black and white one I normally wear…)
I went to my closet, and there was one! A bright red one.
But was it okay to break the dress code in this instance? I’d once been told to wear something pink…Anyway, I was rushing out, and better safe than sorry.
I get to the funeral home, greet the family for the first time in person—and the son of the deceased is wearing a black outfit—with a bright red scarf around his neck! Exactly the same red as the one hanging in my closet!
I was sorry.
But moving on. It’s time to begin our k’ria ritual in the family room. We gather ‘round in a circle holding hands, and instead of a melody I normally use, we sing the melody for The Internationale. It feels empowering to all in the room. The song binds us together as we recommit to the working-person’s struggle.
Then there’s Phil Ochs’ “When I’m Gone.”—instead of Psalm 23 at the beginning of the funeral.
I’d listened and practiced it probably a hundred times in the past 24 hours. I wanted to sing it well and with confidence. I was reassured that it would be playing on the TV monitor during the service. But I look and realize there will be no accompaniment for me.
So I turn to the community and call on everyone to join in and support me. As we sing, there is a gathering force as everyone’s voices join together. And it comes out perfectly. Yet again, we renew our vows to continue to live as this man Bernard did, carrying on the fight for freedom and justice.
On the long limousine ride out to the cemetery, I am with all these young people who are curious about my journey from Communist to Rabbi. I tell them my story. We talk politics. I explain that my political outlook on the world has essentially remained unchanged.
What I forget to tell them is the healing journey I’ve been on, and how this spiritual path has been a gift, how it brings me from a place of despair to one of hope every time I am singing in community, how it puts the current political situation in perspective, and heals on a level much deeper than the psychological. So deep that I want to share it with others as a rabbi.
At the graveside, we stand around and sing Pete Seeger’s “Turn, Turn, Turn” and “To This Old Brown Earth.” The grandchildren cover the grave to the very last bit of soil, pouring all their passion and love for their grandfather into each shovelful of dirt.
And I see that it brings them healing.
At the end of the day, I accept an invitation to return to Shiva house with the family. We look at photos, I see Bernard Aptekar’s amazing artwork—one whose lifelong commitment to social justice led him to use his art as a political platform to help make the world a better place for all.
This all happens on Thursday.
Friday night comes, and although I’m really too tired, I go to synagogue services.
When the prayer for the hostages is sung, I don’t stand up. Not because I don’t care, but because it makes me angry. It feels like we think we can pray our way out of this. Yes, pray for healing, pray for everyone to open their hearts and change our way of living, and that might lead to freedom. But at the moment, there needs to be political will. And—if we’re going to pray for those suffering, then let’s include the Palestinians as well. I want there to be equal compassion for all involved.
Plus, I’m just too tired to stand, physically and emotionally.
Then, the cantor, who is leading services tonight, reads a poem:
It acts like love — music,
it reaches toward the face; touches it,
and tries to let you know His promise,
that all will be okay.
It acts like love — music,
and tells the feet;
"You do not have to be so burdened."
My body is covered with wounds this world made,
but I still longed to kiss Him, even when God said,
"Could you also kiss the hand that caused each scar,
for you will not find Me until you do."
It does that — music.
It helps us to forgive.
When my pain became the cause of my cure,
My contempt changed into reverence
and my doubt into certainty.
I see that I have been the bale on my own path.
Now my body has become my heart.
My heart has become my soul.
And my spirit the eternal spirit.
This is by a woman sold into slavery as a young girl and forced into a life of prostitution. At the age of 50 she was freed and became a holy woman that many came to. Her name was Rabia of Basra, and she lived from 717-801 of the Common Era.
The poem makes the tears come. And they won’t stop. So hopeless does it all feel. With the resumption of the bombing in Gaza, that’s it for the remaining hostages. Tragedy in every direction, including all that is happening in the U.S.
But the poetry, with its challenging spiritual message, and community surrounding me, reminds me that there is a place to find refuge, to cry and cry until the grief is released—at least some of it. It helps me (all of us?) regain the perspective of the long “arc of the moral universe,” as our voices join together in strength for healing the world.
In the Torah reading this week, the work of building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, a “dwelling place for God,” is completed. Just as God orders, so Moses carries out God’s orders to perfection. There are woven chains that hold in place the Ephod, the Breastplate of Justice worn by the High Priest.
The world is not perfect, nor was it ever. But we all need to hold each other, finding sustenance and strength in community, bound together like the chains of the priestly breastpiece in justice, as we face these trying times.
As Pete Seeger sang:
To my old brown earth
And to my old blue sky
I'll now give these last few molecules of "I."
And you who sing,
And you who stand nearby,
I do charge you not to cry;
Guard well our human chain,
Watch well you keep it strong,
As long as sun will shine
And this our home,
Keep pure and sweet and green,
For now I'm yours
And you are also mine
And please say Amen.
