The man is dressed in a black suit, white button-down shirt, and a dark red tie. He appears to be in his late sixties or early seventies, with greying, thinning hair a slightly wrinkled, pale face. He is seated in a lightly colored upholstered armchair.  He is sobbing and shaking uncontrollably, as he mourns the untimely, tragic death of his son.  
 
Standing next to the man is a woman.  She appears to be of similar age, possibly older.  She stands next to the man, her own heartbreak etched on her face, yet she appears confident, with knowing presence.  Her left arm is gently but firmly placed on his right shoulder, an indication that she is there, with him in that moment.  
 
Other family members begin to leave the funeral home, and a fresh wave of tears barrage the man.  She looks at the family and makes the slightest of motions toward them with her free hand.  Her eyes and her hand bespeak more than words can say.  She is sending them on their way while indicating that she will stay back with their relative who in this moment is not yet ready to leave.  She remains with the man, an eternity of no more than a few minutes, he finds a way to settle himself, to stand up, to take her hand in his, and to begin departing from that most devastating of places.  
 
No words. She has used no words at all.  Yet somehow, in the terrible depth of that family's circumstances, he knows that he is safe, secure, protected, and held. She makes no effort to take away any of his pain.  She doesn't tell him that it is time to leave.  She allows his spiraling emotions to run their course.  With her presence, she permits the man to express his most profound grief.  She understands that there are no words to describe the most awful truth of his life. There is only her presence.  And in that moment, the sense that she is standing by his side is all that the man truly needs.
 
This week's Torah portion, Parashat Shemini, provides us with a challenging assessment regarding the value of silence and presence. Without being commanded, Nadav and Avihu, sons of Aaron the High Priest, and nephews of Moses, prepare to offer a burnt sacrifice on the altar.  The flames consume Nadav and Avihu, burning them alive, a seemingly unspeakable tragedy for the community.[1]  
 
Almost immediately thereafter, Moses calls to have their bodies removed to a location outside the camp,[2]and then speaks directly to Aaron, and Aaron's sons Eleazar and Ithamar saying, "Do not bare your heads and do not rend your clothes, lest you die and anger strike the whole community.  But your kinsmen, all the house of Israel, shall bewail the burning that the Lord has wrought."[3]  And then, God piles it on to Aaron, reminding him not to drink wine when entering the Tent of Meeting, and stressing Aaron's obligation to remain a teacher to the Israelites.[4]  The only reaction we have from Aaron is presented in two Hebrew words, vayidom Aharon, "and Aaron was silent."[5]  
 
Aaron has witnessed the death of his sons, the removal of their bodies, is told that by not baring his head or rending his clothes that he is not to mourn, and he is reminded to remain a guide for the Israelites, while meandering through the pit of his most extreme sorrow.  What is really on Aaron's mind?  What is Aaron truly feeling in his heart?  What does Aaron need to say, if anything at all?  What does Aaron need to hear?  His silence speaks unfathomable volumes.
 
In a contemporary reflection published in the 2008 edition of The Torah: A Women's Commentary, Blu Greenberg shares a powerful personal anecdote:
 
The word vayidom means more than he kept quiet--vayishtok.  Aaron responded with a profound, shattering silence, a stunning silence, a shocked silence. He does not justify the cruel decree by blaming his sons and accepting their fate as punishment for their sins. Yet, neither does he revolt or protest God's action.  Total silence.
 
Aaron's response is the profoundest human and religious response to the reality that there are times when good people die unjustly or are consumed in tragedies that seem to be arbitrary, shocking, without justification, and with nothing to ameliorate the pain and loss of those who love them.
 
A few years ago, in 2002, my beloved son JJ, age 36, was killed while riding a bicycle in israel.  He had arrived the night before to celebrate the holidays with the whole family and was bicycling with his brother to visit his sister in Zichron Yaakov, when a young driver ran a yellow light with great speed--and took JJ's life in an instant.  JJ loved Israel, family, Judaism, athletics, God, nature, and life; and he was celebrating all of these loves when life was snuffed out.
 
When my husband and I sat shiva, most people came with no forethought agenda or explanation, though a few--out of good intention and compassion--tried to justify God or soften the loss by giving it some meaning.  "He was so good that God needed him by His side" was one such attempt, to which on one occasion--unable to hold back my words--I responded, "But we on Earth need him more!"  Most people understood at the deepest level that there was nothing that could justify, nothing that could offset the pain or soften the blow, and they wisely remained silent.  And we ourselves were silent, as there were no words we could speak that would make any sense of it....
 
The Jewish laws of bereavement, so exquisitely tuned to the needs of the mourners, stipulate that the shiva visitor should not speak until the mourner speaks.  I had always thought that the point of that precept was to ensure that the conversation would flow to the place the mourner needs it to reach.  But I now understand that the halachah enjoining the comforting visitor to hold back in silence serves a different function: to caution against offering a rationale for the decree of death.  The deeper human religious response is to be silent, to live with the contradiction, and to affirm that we need not force meaning into tragedy.[6]
 
Sometimes, the purest form of love isn't verbal.  It is an adult sitting in a rocking chair, settling an upset child in his arms, placing his hand gently in the small of the baby's back, kissing the baby's forehead, or tousling the baby's hair.  It is the gaze shared by lovers, melting one another's heart.  It is children climbing on their father's back for a "horsey ride," and then turning that parent over, and tickling him until he can't stand it anymore.  It is hugs and kind, supportive, well-intentioned embraces. It is someone who holds the phone patiently, allowing a person on the other end to cry her deepest truth.  It is the gift of presence, when people listen intently as you share and speak or cry the deepest, most vulnerable, and painful truths of your life and when you do similarly for them in their time of need. Sometimes, the purest form of love is the gentle gesture of looking at someone who is sorrowing and placing a hand on our heart or on his shoulder as an act of compassion.  And sometimes, as Aaron teaches us, and as Aaron seems to want, that very silent reassuring presence is both everything and the only thing that we need.[7]
 


[1]                 Leviticus 10:1-3

[2]                Leviticus 10:4

[3]                Leviticus 10:5-6

[4]                Leviticus 10:8-11

[5]                Leviticus 10:3
 

[6]                Blu Greenberg, "Contemporary Reflection: Parashat Shemini," The Torah: A Women's Commentary, pp. 632-633.

[7]                This paragraph is adapted from a personal essay on a separate subject.

​Remarks from Hakan Yesilova, Editor of The Fountain magazine, shared at Temple Avodat Shalom on Friday evening, March 15, 2019.  It is an honour to share his words here.

Worship is when we assume ourselves to be in the safest and most peaceful state of being. In those moments of contemplation and prayer, we try to free ourselves from all our concerns, take a step beyond the material realm of existence – and yes … we are in the house of God. Being in the presence of the Divine, we feel like we are detached from the world, and soar to the heavens… 
 
Or should I be putting these sentences in the past tense? Are we not safe anymore in our beautiful temples,churches, and mosques? Should we not trust anymore members of our congregations, any one member of which can turn into a monster at any unexpected time?
 
Today, the first message of condolence came from my dear friend Rabbi Paul, followed by four other Jewish friends from two other congregations. All of them shared our grief, just as I and my fellow Muslim friends had done after the massacre in Pittsburgh. For, the pain does not differ, and the grief is not exclusive. I am sure, regardless of our faith traditions, we feel the same fear, shock, and pain when we hear the news from New Zealand, Toronto, Florida, Texas, or from Syria, Turkey, Rwanda, Israel. 
 
With this solidarity that I have seen today and as this gathering testifies, I am not going to use the sentences above in the past tense. Our temples, churches, and mosques, places of worship where God’s Name is glorified, are still the most peaceful places of refuge for us. We will continue to come together shoulder to shoulder and stand in prayer under the same roof. Despite all the attacks in recent years, we will continue to welcome everyone, faithful or unfaithful, benevolent or sinner, victim or murderer into our midst. We will continue to treat everyone with justice and compassion, and do all we can to bring healing to everyone whoever is asking. Bediuzzaman Nursi says, “Retaliation in kind is a cruel principle” (Mukabele-I bil misil kaidei zalimanesi) Even if you harm us in our holy places, we will not retaliate. The Qur’an’s message is very clear: 
 
(5:2) Never let your detestation for a people, because they barred you from the Sacred Mosque, move you tocommit violations. Rather, help one another in virtue and goodness, and righteousness and piety, and do not help one another in sinful, iniquitous acts and hostility. 
 
(5:8) O you who believe! Be upholders and standard-bearers of right for God's sake, being witnesses forabsolute justice. And by no means let your detestation for a people (or their detestation for you) move you to deviating from justice. Be just: this is nearer and more suited to righteousness and piety. Seek righteousness and piety, and always act in reverence for God. Surely God is fully aware of all that you do.
 
The Qur’an is also urging us to move forward with dignity if we come across any vanity(25:72) and forgive: (64:14) If you pardon, overlook, and forgive, God is All-Forgiving, All-Compassionate.
 
To the perpetrators of violence, the monsters who massacre the innocent: your brutality does not scare us – for we believe your victims have now reunited with the Beloved and freed from the burdens of this world. Today has become what Rumi calls the “wedding night” for them. Yet, we are saddened by the disgrace you are bringing upon the human race, the most honorable of God’s creation. I want you to know that the Mercy of God we believe in overwhelms the entire universe, including you. 
 
It has been reported today that the old man who saw the terrorist at the entrance of the mosque said “welcome brother” before he was killed. The old man passed away; but his words resonate in the hearts of all believers in our temples, churches, and mosques. Do not fear! You are always welcome. Regardless of how many members of our human family agree with us or not – we will not discriminate on the basis of what you have done. God’s home is open to all. 
 
Fethullah Gülen, my mentor and an important Muslim scholar said, “we have buried the swords and placed rocks upon rocks above them, so no one can hold them up again. Times of brutal engagement are over; it is the time when the diamond truths of faith speak.” Amin.
 

Jerry D. Isaak-Shapiro has been the Head of School of the Joseph and Florence Mandel Jewish day School in Beachwood, Ohio since 2003.  This week, he published an article recounting his personal and professional experiences over thirty years that led him to become a head of a Jewish day school.  He writes:
 
In all those years and in all of those venues I've tried very hard to stay away from the anti-                Semitism button.  Teach about it of course; try to understand it, absolutely.  But be very, very careful about invoking it as Jewish motivation.  Don't even allow your campers/students/staff to infer that what was meant was, Live Jewishly because of what they did.  Do Jewish because it's the best answer to them.  Wear that star/that shirt/that kippah - because that's how we respond to it.[1]
 
Isaak-Shapiro continues his article by exploring the rising tide of anti-Semitic incidents throughout the world -- swastikas, graveyard desecrations, issues on college campuses, assaults in Europe, South America, and events in the United States, most notably in Charlottesville and Pittsburgh.[2]  Yet if anti-Semitism is not used as a means of Jewish motivation, of stirring the pot, of getting us angry, of enabling us to play our centuries-old "victim" card, or acknowledging how much we need to rally around how much the world really hates us, how do we continue to have the anti-Semitism conversation?
 
In the past few weeks, attention has focused on the anti-Semitic rhetoric of Congresswoman Ilhan Omar, Democrat from Minnesota, a supporter of the Boycott-Divestment-Sanctions movement against Israel.  Her comments regarding about the financing of Israel lobbying organizations, and about the requirement of allegiance to a foreign country, namely Israel, have been denounced by many, with others rushing to support her.  Given this troubling disparity, how do we continue to have the anti-Semitism conversation?  
 
Earlier this week, the United States House of Representatives issued a bill with language that condemns, “anti-Semitism as hateful expressions of intolerance that are contradictory to the values that define the people of the United States and condemn[s] anti-Muslim discrimination and bigotry against minorities as contrary to the values of the United States.”[3]  It is powerful for Congress to take a public stand against hatred and bigotry. However, the first vote on the resolution needed to be postponed, and the language of the bill, which was originally intended as a censure against Omar, was changed to reflect other discrimination besides anti-Semitism.[4]  So a vote on anti-Semitism becomes a "Kumbaya-moment vote" on something more than anti-Semitism.  And we are not supposed to regard that change in the resolution as anti-Semitic?  It is as if we are saying that the problems that the Jewish people face in the United States and worldwide are not really worthy of any attention.  So how do we continue to have the anti-Semitism conversation?
 
We are rightfully angry regarding recent events and a significant uptick in anti-Semitic incidents. As Bret Stephens, opinion columnist for The New York Timeswrote this week Omar "knows exactly what she is doing."[5]  He comments:
 
For those who don’t get it, claims that Israel “hypnotises” the world, or that it uses                              money to bend others to its will, or that its American supporters “push for allegiance to a foreign country,” repackage falsehoods commonly used against Jews for centuries. People can debate the case for Israel on the merits, but those who support the state should not have to face allegations that their sympathies have been purchased, or their brains hijacked, or their loyalties divided.[6]
 
Regarding the condemnation of Omar's words, Daniel Elbaum, Chief Advocacy Officer for the American Jewish Committee added, "We responded because words matter.  We responded because history has taught us that we must.  We responded because there is a persuadable constituency that needs to understand the danger in such stereotypes.  We responded because there is really nothing else we could have done and still been true to our mission.[7]
 
But the problem of anti-Semitism runs even deeper than current events.  We woke up this morning to news from the Kotel, where the Women of the Wall celebrated their 30th anniversary, trying once again to pray, sing and chant from the Torah from the women's section at the Western Wall.  They were impeded by busloads of yeshiva girls, and then attacked by members of the ultra-Orthodox community.  Rabbi Josh Weinberg cited, "Reports of angry mobs showing up to kick, fight, spit at, and rip off the tallitot and kippot of those coming to pray and celebrate with the Women of the Wall."[8]  He added:
 
Just imagine that today, on the beginning of the month of Adar II, the authorities of the                                  Western Wall said 'Today we are commanded to be happy, and we welcome you with open arms! Today, we realize that you are not a threat to our form of Judaism, and you are just trying to pray and exalt God’s name like we are! Please come, read the word of the living God, and rejoice in this most joyful of days.' Just imagine what would happen if so many people were praying and dancing and singing and celebrating that they didn’t even notice a couple of hundred women coming to this holiest of spots.[9]
 
When our struggles are not only with the outside world, but we are also battling vitriol internally as a people, how do we continue to have the conversation on anti-Semitism?  We know how to holds vigils and multi-faith peace gatherings in the wake of unthinkable events like Pittsburgh, and then the terror subsides, and we move on.  We know how to raise our fist out of anger against people like Ilhan Omar and even Louis Farrakhan, and we do so, until we run out of steam, and until the next wave hits, another priority takes over, or the next person opens their mouth.  We know how to send money to Israel, how to support the Progressive movement's efforts in Israel, how to affirm what it means to be a Reform Jew, but often, we can feel embarrassed or dismissed by Jews who practice differently than we do, wanting and craving their validation and affirmation.  
 
As we bear witness to anti-Semitism in the world, there is an internal conversation, a personal conversation that is very difficult for us to have.  This coming Sunday, Morah Barbara Haber is leading a conversation with religious school parents about the priority, the necessity, and the beauty of Jewish education, a response to her bulletin article in February.  We have about six RSVPs at this stage.  As we discuss next steps for Temple Avodat Shalom and address the changing landscape of Bergen County, what does it mean to grow the conversation to focus on the role of Jewish learning?  
 
We have, regularly, between twenty-five and thirty people who attend Torah study on Shabbat morning, what many people in the class have come to call the "intellectual highlight" of their week.  And then we struggle to make a minyan for services. What does it mean to have a conversation about the place and the priority of prayer in our lives?  
 
It is wonderful that our Brotherhood and Sisterhood are planning a B'nei Mitzvah party at the end of the month.  When I was growing up, Mom always told me, "You don't get to go to the party if you don't go to the service before."  What does it mean to have a conversation about being here on Saturday mornings, about making b'nei mitzvah more than just a private, family affair, and reclaiming B'nei Mitzvah as a celebration of a young adult's entrance into and embrace of Jewish life and community.  
 
That only happens when religious community becomes more of a priority, and when we work to share this message beyond the forty or so people who are here.  That only happens when we become the advocates for and ambassadors to the rest of our congregation.  It is as Mr. Isaak-Shapiro commented:
 
Knowledge of our past and our present, of the unimaginatively rich gifts we’ve                                      bequeathed to humanity, is uplifting and empowering. An appreciation of the eagerness with which we reach out to ourselves and to others – a celebration of the extraordinary brilliance of Shabbat, the intricacies of the Hebrew language, the depth of our sacred Texts. The human gifts we’ve shared with the world, who owed their particular genius – whether in music or philosophy or science – to a grounding in Judaism’s values and                                     intellectual underpinning.  Couple that knowledge with the enthusiasm and pride that it                               engenders – not boastfulness, but exuberance. The unbidden smile at seeing a blue and                           white flag, the joy of learning – together. The bedrock feeling of being part of something larger than oneself.  That knowledge – and that pride – are the armor that allows us to stand up, to bigotry that’s focused on us, or on anyone.[10]
 
This is how we have the conversation on anti-Semitism.
 


[1]https://ejewishphilanthropy.com/first-things-first-recognize-that-its-there/?utm_source=March+8%2C+2019&utm_campaign=Fri+March+8&utm_medium=email

[2]Ibid.

[3]https://forward.com/news/national/420535/ilhan-omar-resolution-anti-semitism-israel/

[4]Ibid.

[5]https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/07/opinion/ilhan-omar-anti-semitism.html

[6]Ibid.

[7]https://www.ajc.org/news/why-challenging-rep-omar-matters?utm_source=SilverpopMailing&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Dispatch%2003.08.2019%20(1)&utm_content=&ms=EL-EML-20190308-Dispatch%2003.08.2019%20(1)&gs=gm%2BEgr%2FrkxPjFyGSMFtDVny18NMlXrO1IKDGa3d3nyKy8YccZswCtdqZffPWoL96yq2JgnTK8EamPTN2MlTjS9pJDha%2FKB2IDsNNy4mnESFNvYq6kEqPK75ypV%2B6SZ81&af=yd8LqXyomJAY6ILH2%2FTcofOG7znXi%2BWLmdZPEVLWWN%2BkLkZF4fMdppMb7tQ8yNBPQogkqt%2Bq0mbjRsN6mYcM64mcfXk1KZedKyfF8trriuw%3D&spMailingID=3056721&spUserID=MzIwMTg4MzgxMjAS1&spJobID=740346965&spReportId=NzQwMzQ2OTY1S0

[8]Rabbi Josh Weinberg, March 8, 2019, Message to ARZA Community.  Via E-mail. 

[9]Ibid.

[10]https://ejewishphilanthropy.com/first-things-first-recognize-that-its-there/?utm_source=March+8%2C+2019&utm_campaign=Fri+March+8&utm_medium=email