Is My Heart Fully Broken?
וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם׃
And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.
Exodus 25:8
The first time I stepped up on the bimah as a Student Rabbi, was special for a few reasons. Hull Reform is a special community; deeply committed to continuing their practice and communal life with great spirit and an incredibly warm welcome (as all are, I’m sure!), and it was special because it was Simchat Torah so we danced, sang, and prayed together.
At the end of the service, the Chairman announced that there had been some kind of attack in Israel; he wasn’t sure of any details yet, and I remember thinking that I’d check the news later to learn about the latest skirmish that we have become so sadly accustomed to over the years.
And I remember reflecting back on that day, a few days later, being so so grateful that we were able to celebrate and enjoy Simchat Torah and Shabbat exactly as it should be, and it was only after that the true horrors began to reveal themselves (and still are).
Four months.
A third of a year.
126 Days.
There is one particular young Israeli man who I want to mention in honour of Hull Reform’s decision to raise awareness about him specifically, and support his family specifically, as he remains in Gaza, as a hostage.
Nimrod Cohen.
Nimrod and his twin sister Romi are 19. They live with their parents Vicki and Yehuda in Rehovot, a small town, inland, a half an hour’s drive south of Ben Gurion airport.
He loves computer games, traveling and solving Rubik’s cubes. For the last 126 days Nimrod has been held hostage in Gaza; one of 136 people still there.
These words are dedicated to Nimrod and his incredibly strong family, as I continue to support wholeheartedly the international campaign for his and all the hostages’ return from captivity in Gaza.
It was hard to know what to say this Shabbat just gone, back on the bimah in Hull as I lead from the pulpit for the second time.
I shared my experiences and reflections since October 7th, which are shared here too, in the hope that the Hull community, and you reading this, find resonance, hope and comfort in these words:
One of the things that has changed most profoundly for me is how I’ve felt in the company of others, specifically others who are not Jewish.
I have always prided myself on the fact that since moving to Leeds over 20 years ago, I have been part of a growing network of diverse people, some of faith religious communities, some not, some involved in interfaith work, some not; good people, connected to each other through a love of the city in which we lived, and a desire and commitment to being part of projects and initiatives to celebrate our diverse heritage and cultures together.
I have been shocked and deeply upset at the reactions of some of these people. I don’t need to go into it in depth here; I assume you all know and perhaps sadly also have had experience of the hurtful ignorance and comments that have so easily slipped into anti-Semitic rhetoric.
I have also been deeply humbled and moved to tears by the generosity, kindness and empathy of some of these people. The desire to reach out to me to express their shock and sorrow. We must remember this too.
The saddest thing of all for me is how much I have retreated into my safe comfortable tribal cave, and how I have to catch myself from using words that reflect the false dichotomy of ‘sides’:
I have heard and read:
‘Whichever side you are on…’
‘Are you pro-Palestine or pro-Israel?’
‘Both sides are hurting’
Where’s the “side” for peace? For humanity, shared suffering, compassion, hope?
British Muslim activist and public speaker, Julie Siddiqi, wrote:
Don’t keep asking me to choose one over another.
Don’t use those ever divisive words "you are either with us or against us".
I am neither ... and both. All of it at once. It’s messy. Confusing. Heartbreaking.
Flags are interesting. To some they mean nothing. To others they are everything.
I choose to acknowledge both. Israeli and Palestinian flags.
I can see the legitimacy in both.
...
...
So do not make me choose war and hatred. The cycles of violence continue.
Don’t create a hierarchy of suffering right now.
I choose peace, every time. And that is where my focus will be.
“Dear God, make me a channel of your peace”
In friendship and solidarity.
Julie Siddiqi. October 10th 2023
I’m struggling particularly with some friends whose social media feed is full of the ongoing destruction and suffering of innocent people in Gaza. As is mine is full of the testimonies of survivors of Nova, pleas from people like Vicki, and Yehuda, and Romi to Bring Them Home, and Free Palestine graffiti on synagogues and in universities around the world, including Hillel House in Leeds, just yesterday…
And yet…
The WhatsApp message exchange I began today’s sermon with was between me and one of those friends. Just from the words though, you’d be hard pressed to know which ‘side’ we are each on; and if we are on the same ‘side’. We are able to choose words that are not incendiary. We can find words that we can agree on, tentatively and tenuously, tiptoeing around so much that we AREN’T saying as much as what we are.
This is part of my being now, since October 7th.
My heart is totally shattered by the loss and suffering of those caught in the barbarity of the actions of Hamas on October 7th. I cry for the soldiers and hostages who have been killed since. I pray for the safe return of those still held in Gaza, and for the safety of those in the IDF.
Is my heart, and my heartbreak, full?
Is there a limit to the amount of compassion a human can have?
Mussar is built on the concept that we all have within us middot - soul traits - that comprise our human nature. There is no right or wrong; they exist in all of us and by drawing attention to them, thinking deeply about them and reflecting on how they play out in our lives, and practicing how they could play out in different ways is the practice of Mussar.
Compassion is one of these soul traits.
Compassion. Rachamim. Sharing the same root as the word rechem - womb it is already teaching us that we need to be thinking about emotional bonds and strong ties of love, kinship, and tenderness when we are thinking about compassion.
Rabbi Sharon Brous, in The Amen Effect, writes:
"Curiosity is the birthplace of compassion, but the greater the psychological distance between us and the other, the less curious we are about one another. When we don't wonder what the other is thinking or feeling, or where the pain comes from, when we don't interrogate our presuppositions, our hearts dose to one another. This leaves us less understanding of other perspectives, more entrenched in our own dogmas and narratives, and more susceptible to dangerous, fringe views. A society devoid of empathy is at great risk of falling into patterns of dehumanization that have, throughout history, led to the most extreme acts of violence, including genocide.”
Rabbi Sharon Brous, The Amen Effect (2024), p155
I shall end with these words, written by Mira Awad, a Palestinian human rights activist and artist. She wrote and posted this on Facebook on Friday:
“So how do you start a dialogue when people are not in dialogue mode?
Every time, I answer: You let them know you see their pain.
Eyebrows are often raised when I say this, followed by the question: Do they see MY pain? Unfortunately, there's no guarantee, but this quote comes to mind: "Be the change you want to see."
I understand you're in pain and need your own pain to be acknowledged, but compassion is a healing force. Cultivating it would not only assist others but also mend your own heart.
Compassion isn't a commodity you obtain; it's an action you take. If you find the compassion to make room for somebody else's pain, despite your own, you'd be creating a shift in dynamics for both of you.
Pain, suffering, loss, and even war are inevitable, but the question is what we choose to do in light of these realities. Do we cocoon ourselves in our justified self-righteousness and expect everyone else to do the approaching, the compromising, the apologizing?
I would dare to claim that this mindset is like a black hole in the soul. Left unchecked, it can swallow one's entire existence. Bunkering down and folding in on ourselves will leave us completely isolated from the world, blind to both pain and pleasure, unmoved by the suffering of others and the beauty that still exists in the world.
When we're isolated and engulfed in darkness, healing becomes harder.
…
You have a choice. You can succumb to the black hole, letting it suck the life and joy from your world, or you can open your eyes and heart. See their pain, show them yours, hear their story, tell them yours, and work together to prevent anyone else from experiencing the same terrible loss ever again.
It won't be easy, and it might even be painful. But it would be the right kind of pain—the kind that comes with cleaning and bandaging wounds. It's a known fact that wounds need to be tended; otherwise, they fester and develop deadly infections. I know it hurts; we're all wounded after all. But let's not allow our wounds to kill us.”
***
“Dear God, make me a channel of your peace”
Make a sanctuary for God, so that God can dwell amongst them:
וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם׃
And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.
Exodus 25:8
