Two Weddings, a Funeral, and an Unveiling

Some rabbis in the Talmud pose a situation: if a wedding and a funeral procession meet in a crossroads, what do they do?

The answer: the funeral procession is diverted; the wedding takes precedence.

This was something of the situation I experienced this past weekend.

It was the second wedding, two weeks in a row, where I co-officiated with a Christian pastor.

The attacks on Israel by Hamas had happened that very morning.

Just before the wedding in the evening, the Jewish parents of the groom’s family and I talked about it.

Should they “tell the children”?

They had decided against it.

Why ruin their wedding day?

I agreed completely.

It was nice to know that our instincts went with Jewish tradition.

And since celebration trumps mourning, I begin with my wedding experiences.

Both weddings were extremely joyful.

And life changing.

For the couples, the families, and for me.

The first was Upstate New York, near Rochester.

The second, in Charleston, “Down South.”

Very different places with very different cultures.

Yet, not such different experiences for the families or for me.

The fears I’d had about the ministers did not play out—not even with the Evangelical pastor.

They were both extremely careful, respectful, sensitive, caring.

We laughed together and bonded.

I had also wondered at the wisdom of traveling for four days each, two weekends in a row.

It’s demanding work.

And Covid is going around like wildfire.

The decision had been a difficult one; officiating on Shabbos afternoon, on the first day of the holiday of Sukkos, and then on Simchas Torah.

But both couples wanted me at the rehearsal, and to lead a ketubah-signing ritual on Friday, and Shabbos prayers that night before dinner.

For free, I threw in an interfaith-egalitarian-inspired Bedeken ritual (veiling and unveiling of the bride) before signing their interfaith ketubah (the traditional Jewish marriage contract made untraditional).

I wove Sukkos and Simchas Torah into all of it; the reminder that God does not need a permanent structure in which to abide, but rather moves with us, within us, and around us at all times.

And we would be dancing like crazy that night, with so much joy, as we do on Simchas Torah.

I taught through stories, and led everyone in song and blessing.

For the first wedding, I carried a lulav and esrog with me on the airplane along with other religious Jews.

And before the traditional prayers over the candles, wine, and challah, before inviting in the angels with Sholom Aleichem, I gave a little shpiel.

I talked about the kind of world these couples, and their families in supporting them, were ushering in: a world of love and peace between people that seem so different on the outside, but are the same on the inside.

It was about crossing boundaries that have been closed for centuries.

It was about how difficult this was for the families, both of whom feel strongly about their religious faiths and traditions.

And the courage it took for them to be there.

It was about helping the Christians understand a little more about Jewish trauma and our history.

It was about the importance of focusing on the commonalities more than our differences:

Our common texts, the language of blessing, even God language (minus Jesus) is the same.

And the language of Messiah: whether it’s a “second coming” or a first, we’re all praying for the same thing:

When peace and love will reign on Earth.

I even explained that I would be changing the language of the Hebrew prayers from “God, you have chosen us from among all peoples” to “with all peoples”—because we are all chosen by God; God chooses all of us.

There was so much appreciation for these statements, from all present.

Had I said no to them for the myriad of reasons listed above, it would have been a lost opportunity.

A lost opportunity for deep connection between me and the families.

To serve the pastoral needs—not just of the Jews, but of the Christians present as well.

The Jews would not have had representation, and they wouldn’t have had a rabbi to help them close the gap.

It would have been a lost opportunity for healing.

And a lost opportunity for learning and appreciation of Jewish ritual and custom.

The result was gratitude expressed by both the Jewish and Christian families and friends.

Gratitude from people of such different backgrounds for being able to come together the way they did.

Gratitude for accomplishing boundary-crossing so successfully, not just by clenching jaws and bearing it.

Gratitude from everyone in the room feeling heard and seen, understood and accepted.

This was holy work.

It gave me hope in humanity and the future.

Then the attack happened on Israel.

And the retaliation.

And a veil seemed to come down over the joy.

Suddenly, after the joy, it felt like a funeral.

All the hope I’d had for Israel’s future drained from me.

Just as Israel was fighting, divided over its political future, with a chance for a better democracy coming to be, it united in war.

In vengeance.

All of Jewish trauma came out at once; “We will be annihilated!”

Doubt and hopelessness came screaming in my face.

Heartbreak and grief took over.

And then.

I remembered a shiur (a teaching) I heard just a couple of weeks ago.

It was from Rabbi Jonathan Sacks on Rosh Hashanah.

A teaching that Rosh Hashanah does not celebrate the birth of the world, but the birth of humans.

As we read from Genesis this coming Shabbos, each step along the way, God creates on his own.

And each time, God says, it’s good: the heavens, the Earth, the sea, the light, the animals…

It’s all good.

Until it comes to humans.

Then God asks, “Shall we create humans in our likeness?”

The rabbis answer the conundrum of the plural “we” that suddenly appears, implying collective creativity, with a midrash:

God creates a group of angels, and asks them, “Shall we create humans in our likeness?”

The angels answer the question with a question: “What are these humans to be like?”

God gives them a little preview.

The angels say, “No, better not."

God doesn’t like their answer, so God destroys them.

God creates a second group of angels, and the same thing happens.

With the third group, the angels answer God’s question by saying, “Master of the Universe, we know what happened to the first two groups of angels. This is your world, do with it as you please.”

So God creates humans.

Then bad things start happening: Cain and Abel, the flood, the Tower of Babel…

The angels say to God, “Sorry, but we told you so.”

And God answers, “I will not give up on them, no matter how bad they are.”

This Saturday, with the new moon, we enter the Hebrew month of Heshvan.

With that transition, we come to the end of Tishrei, the busiest month in the Jewish year that started with Rosh Hashanah and ended with Simchas Torah.

It is a time that is supposed to bring about transformation.

I pray that we continue to find ways of transforming what feels like a world void of hope.

I pray that we remember that, for all that is happening in our world, we maintain awareness that there are other worlds where different things are happening for different people.

I pray that we remember the suffering of others besides ourselves.

I pray that, despite the grief and anger and outrage, we each try our hardest to see the likeness of God in every human being.

I pray that, despite rising violence and increasing polarization, we each find ways of closing gaps and crossing boundaries.

I pray that a way to peace is unveiled for all of us.

I pray that we each contribute more to peace than to war.

With our words, our prayers, and our deeds.

Like God, we should refuse to give up on humanity, no matter how bad it gets.

And please say Amen.