Sermon: Healing After Orlando

Healing After Orlando: Our Cries Can Change Us and Our World

A few weeks ago, I woke up, excited about the day ahead.  It was a sleepy Sunday morning, but more importantly, it was the Jewish holiday of Shavout!  In just a few hours, we’d gather in our sanctuary for Confirmation.  Our 10^th grade students would don their white robes, lead us in prayer, and share stories about their Jewish journeys.  As I jumped out of bed, I grabbed my phone, and that’s when I saw the news that stopped me dead in my tracks: 49 people dead, countless others injured.  It was like a punch in the stomach.  Another shooting, another terrorist attack, another massacre.  In the last few years: Columbine, Boston, Sandy Hook, and now Orlando.  Too many killed, too many maimed, too many hurt, physically and emotionally.  

Long ago, the Israelites felt a similar punch in the stomach.  Miriam, one of the leaders of the community, and Moses’ sister, was struck with a terrible skin condition.  Without warning and very dramatically, Miriam encountered a horrible and debilitating disease.  It was a shock to all and it was devastating to Moses.  Like the attack in Orlando, this moment seemed incomprehensible.  His sister was struck with a terrible illness, unlikely to get better.  The world that he knew was upturned and nothing felt normal.  He felt powerless to do anything at all, so he did what he could do, he prayed to God with these words: El Na Rafah Na Lah, “O God, please heal her!”

This prayer is one of the shortest in Jewish tradition.  It consists of only 11 letters, five words.  Each of the words, except for God’s name, ends with a vowel.  It’s as much a cry as a prayer: El Na Rafah Na Lah, “O God, please heal her!”  Moses felt like we did after the attack: an unease, feelings of mourning, a brute sense of fear and misery.  He asked the same questions we did: “How could this happen?  What can we do to move forward?”

It’s been almost two weeks since the attack at the Pulse night club.  For many of us, we’ve moved passed the feelings of shock and fear.  We’ve moved on to another phase of mourning: of longing for the past; of anger that these attacks continue to happen in our country.  We might even feel a willingness to move forward, to do something.

The Torah teaches that the Israelite people did not travel forth until Miriam was fully healed.  They waited in the camp for over seven days, until she was reunited with the community.  Only after time and healing, could the community move forward.  We’ve lost too many innocent men, women, and children who are no longer able to rejoin us.  They’ve been taken away from us by hatred, by violence, by bombs, by bullets.  How can we move forward without them?  In many ways it’s easy to allow these moments of violence to become the status quo.  After an attack, we rush to social media to update our profile picture or to post on facebook or twitter.  That is helpful, but is it enough?  A few days later, everything fades away, our sadness disappears, our anger dissipates, and then we continue on with life.  These moments of bloodshed become the new normal and that is terrifying!

Moses cried out to God.  His cry was blunt and from the heart.  El Na Rafah Na Lah.  “O God, please heal her!”  His cry rose up to the heavens and God heeded his request.  Our cry must be heard too.  We must not remain silent or indifferent after these terrible tragedies.  We can’t allow ourselves to settle in to the status quo and allow these massacres to continue.  Our cries must reach up to the heavens, but they also must reach towards the halls of our state capitols and Washington DC.  May our cries change us and may our cries change our world.

The Rainbow: A Prayer for Orlando

O Holy One, Creator of all Living Creatures,

Our hearts are broken after the carnage and devastation of Orlando.

Fifty innocent people murdered and countless others injured.

They gathered to dance, to sing, to gather with friends.

This was a place of refuge, where they could be true to themselves.

Yet, hatred darkened our world, storm clouds blocked the joyful sun.

Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual, and Transgender young people,

murdered for who they are and who they love.

A month of pride, so full of celebration, now dampened under clouds.

Long ago, our world was darkened by a flood of water.

Storms brewed and the sun’s soft glow seemed a distant memory.

When all hope seemed lost, You provided a most magnificent gift: an array of vibrant color.

The rainbow symbolizes the fight for LGBT Equality.

The rainbow represents pride in our identities.

The rainbow reminds us of the everlasting covenant between you and all living creatures.

As the storm clouds continue to blow, may sunlight make its entrance.

May the bow in the sky break down barriers of the unknown.

May its vibrant palette remind us that love can conquer all hate.

May its beautiful colors remind us that each of us are created in your image, each of us are holy, sacred, and special.  Amen

Am I My Brother's Keeper? - Moving Forward After the Oregon Shooting

This week, we once again begin “In the Beginning” with the story of the Creation of the World.  We meet the first human beings, Adam and Eve; we celebrate the first Shabbat; we discover the first moment of love; we watch the birth of the first child.  Life seems idyllic, truly peaceful.  Unfortunately, shortly after the world was created, we also experience the first moments of pain, of struggle, and of death.

Many of us know the story of Cain and Abel, the story of the first murder.  The two brothers were complete opposites: Abel a shepherd was giving and big hearted, while Cain, a farmer, thought only of himself.  The two brought gifts to God: Abel shared his most precious animal, while Cain brought ordinary vegetables.

Cain became jealous of his brother’s many successes.  The Torah teaches, that in midst of a field, Cain approached Abel and killed him.  Afterwards, God asks Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?”  Cain replies: “I do not know.  Am I my brother’s keeper?”

These famous words, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” are renowned throughout history.  Interestingly, Cain never receives an answer to his question.  What follows is silence.  Cain is punished, required to wander the earth.  But, why does God fail to answer Cain’s question?

When God finally addresses Cain, God tells him: “your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground!”  The word blood, damim, is in the plural.  It should be translated as bloods, “your brother’s bloods cry out to Me…”  The rabbis teach that Cain did not only kill Abel, he also killed all of Abel’s future descendants; an entire family line was uprooted in this murder.

As I reflected upon the story of Cain and Abel, my thoughts turned towards the rampant gun violence that pervades our society.  Just as Abel’s blood cries out to God, so too do we hear the cries of innocent victims murdered last week in Oregon.  We mourn the loss of life, of families broken, of entire family lines uprooted.  Recently, I recognized how desensitized I have become to the many shootings that seem to occur month after month.  There have been too many deaths from gun violence: from Virgina Tech, to Columbine, to Charleston, and now to Oregon, and many more.  Every few weeks another massacre occurs and yet nothing seems to change.  There are words of mourning, eulogies delivered, but once again life returns back to normal.  Time after time, my thoughts turn back to Cain’s question: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” and God’s silence.

As one of the first human beings, Cain might not have known the power he possessed in his hands.  As only the third person in the world, Cain was still figuring out how life worked, how relationship worked, how anger and violence worked.  Was his crime solely the murder of his brother or could his crime be something even more profound?

I believe that the words “Am I my brother’s keeper? - are the true essence of this story.  Yes, Cain murdered his brother, this was his sin.  But, I believe that his crime was deeper than that.  Cain had an inability to recognize his responsibility for others.  Cain showed no remorse and did not seem to care that his brother was gone. 

That’s why God never answers Cain directly.  In the silence, God affirms that Cain must find the answer himself.  Yes, God punishes Cain, but God wants Cain and all those that follow after him, including us, to discover our responsibility to care for and watch out for all of humanity.

Cain didn’t discover the answer to his question as he used brunt force or after the crime was committed.  It was only later, that he was able to change and to grow.  The Torah teaches that when God doled out punishment for the crime, Cain tells God, “My punishment is too great to bear!”    The word avon – punishment – is often translated as sin.  Cain tells God: “My sin is too great to bear!”  Here, we witness a different Cain; a man who is aware of his failings, who has finally taken responsibility for his actions.  At this moment, he begins that process of teshuvah, of repentance, and taking on the repercussions of his actions.

In many ways, after each shooting, after each massacre, I feel like I’ve stepped into Cain’s shoes.  I recognize how desensitized I’ve become to the violence; how powerless I feel to change anything; how complacent I’ve become with the status quo.  After each shooting, I hear myself asking: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Yet, all I hear is silence.  Cain found the answer himself and changed his ways.  So too, after each massacre, must each of us, and our elected officials, look deeply into that silence, answer the question, and move forward.   Judaism teaches that “to save a life, is to save the world.”  By preventing one murder, we will save a family, a community, and a world.