Kol Nidre 2024

We Are Never Alone

The words of poet and theologian Devon Spier.

to fix upon
the gaze of
g-d is to
know the
bowed head
of a
neighbor

if every one isn’t a speck of g-d
no one is
so no one
not any body
is or can be a stranger
not in g-d’s looking universe

we are all witnesses to the other
especially in the moments
no one dares gaze back

This has been in so many ways an impossibly difficult year. If you think back to where you were three hundred and sixty five days ago, think of what it meant to see those terrible images for the first time coming out of Sderot and K’far Aza and the Nova music festival and so many other places, it seemed in that moment that we as a people were terribly alone, no one, or very few, willing to meet our gaze, that in that moment, we were, too often, strangers in God’s looking universe, and that perhaps even God was a stranger to us.

It has been a year of grief, of fear, of anxiety, of wondering who our friends are, and how to have conversations that recognize our pain as well as others, where we have asked for nuance and for our grief to be heard but found so few returning our gaze. We seek solidarity and find little.

It is an experience felt all too often: by the mourner, by the sufferer of violence, by the gravely ill, by the abandoned, by the homeless: will no one meet our gaze? Will no one see our bowed head?

We could give in to our despair and respond with a hardened heart and a cold eye. If no one cares for my suffering, why should I care for others? My heart is broken enough—do I need the burdens of the other as well, truly? Why shouldn’t we retreat into our pain? What shall we do with our grief?

For much of this past year, my response, despite many calls to action, to engagement, and to picking sides, was to mourn and grieve. To acknowledge the sadness and pain and fear I saw in myself and others. One must acknowledge the hurt and the trauma of the moment, to see it for what it is, and see it fully and whole-heartedly, and bear witness to one’s own stories and others before any healing or recovery can begin. Perhaps that is what has been so disappointing and distressing for us; the lack of willingness by so many—including many of our own people—to bear witness to the pain of this past year.

I recognize that mourning and grieving, listening, and acknowledging of pain, does not “do it” for many people. I had a conversation with a local activist and elected official in the spring, several months after the events of Simchat Torah, who responded to my comments about grief that they did not have time for that, and that they needed to take immediate action; political action. While I understand where that instinct comes from, I must respectfully disagree. That urge to act without reflection or acknowledgement sounds to me like the amygdala talking, with our fight-flight-or-freeze reaction insisting on taking control. Or to put more theologically, as Martin Buber reminds us, “We can be redeemed only to the extent to which we see ourselves.” Action without reflection or acknowledgement does not lead to healing, repair, or support. It only leads, as we have seen over and over again, to more pain and more sorrow.

In reflecting on that grief and mourning so many of us were experiencing, I wondered who was with us, who was willing to bear witness, to acknowledge our pain? Who was willing to be present? And I often went to some pretty dark places in those moments of reflection. If all life is encounter, as Buber insists, who was really willing to encounter us at this moment? I found myself turning to texts I had learned during the pandemic from beloved teachers; specifically the writings of the Aish Kodesh, Rabbi Kalonymous Kalman Shapira, himself a victim of the Shoah, who wrote and spoke extensively about faith to the community of the Warsaw Ghetto. The Aish Kodesh spoke of the suffering and pain that so many faced in arguably our people’s worst moment, and while I will not say his teachings necessarily brought me comfort (either when I learned them during the pandemic or today) I will say that I found wisdom in his words. For the Aish Kodesh, we never weep in isolation; we always weep with our ancestors who came before us, who experienced trials and traumas themselves, and with God. Yes, with God, who welcomes us into the innermost chambers and with whom we find comfort. We are never truly alone: like the mourner who stands for the first time while saying Kaddish and for the first time sees those others in their own periods of memory standing with her, all the mourners standing together, there is always a communion of mutual concern, even if we aren’t immediately attuned to it, even if we think we are alone.

That communion of mutual concern binds us together, strengthens us, and calls us to one another. It reminds us, demands of us, that we not merely isolate ourselves in our pain but that we expand that communion of mutual concern, emanating it outward. As our ancestors learned from their experience not mere survival but spiritual and ethical uplift, and a deep, profound need to recognize our own plight in the Other and therefore respond to it, so are we now compelled to do as so many Jews have done before: weep knowing that we do not weep alone, no matter what some might say, acknowledge the pain, and only then turn to action to alleviate the pain I see in the world. As Rabbi Israel Salanter wrote so powerfully: “Someone else’s material needs are my spiritual responsibility.” To put it another way, I must understand my pain as seen and acknowledged in order to bear witness to others’ pain, to gaze into their eyes, see their bowed head, and do what I can to bring relief.

Because the truth is, not anyone, not anybody, is a stranger in this world. It is only we who fail to see it until we are caught up in this communion of concern, until we weep with one another. We are all witnesses to the other, especially in the moments no one dares gaze back. As we attempt to emerge from our pain, let us find a way to be present for one another. Let us acknowledge the other fully and truly. Let us make the effort to support and sustain one another, and all those who are suffering, understanding others’ pain as our responsibility. And may we see to it that no one, none of us, are strangers, but rather witnessed, embraced, and, God-willing, healed. May this be so. Amen.