Can we dream, for a moment?
Imagine that
while we are all in here – praying away – that rainbow – the one that was drawn
on pavements and hung in windows back at the start of this Covid-isation of all
our lives – emerged from behind a cloud, and whoosh – it was all gone.
All the
fear, all the illness, all the masks and all the swabs… click your heels
together three times, or give a hundred blasts on the Shofar and imagine it’s
all gone.
So here’s my
question for today, and my sermonic journey through this time – what have we
learnt?
For me, one
of the big lessons has come from re-appraising my relationship with other
people.
Not my most
immediate closest circle. I know I’m incredibly blessed to have an immediate
close circle of people I love – and if you were to ask my kids they would
probably share they saw more than enough of me under lockdown.
But once you
get outside my immediate bubble and move outwards, and outwards there are so
many other people.
The postman,
the Amazon driver, the supermarket cashier, none of whom signed up for a job on
the front line.
The soldiers
staffing a COVID test site, with their camouflage visible under translucent hazmat
suits who signed up ready for the front-lines, but didn’t realise they would be
fighting an enemy 20nm in diameter.
The faces of
those I used to see in this space and chat to in the kiddush hall, who became
video boxes in a Zoom room – staring out from locked-down homes at Havdalah
ceremonies and learned discourses.
I’ve been
rethinking all of that.
And I’ve
also been thinking about the people I’ve stopped seeing all together. This is
the first Rosh Hashanah in decades where Sonia, our beloved nonagenarian Sonia,
isn’t with us. Sonia couldn’t handle the transition to a virtual world and lost
just about all kinds of social contact. Sonia died over the summer not from the
virus, but the virus stripped her of life nonetheless. And I miss her.
The word
that keeps coming to my mind, in these are-we/aren’t-we capable of normal
social contact times is ‘precious’ – in both of its meanings. Precious as in
beautiful. And precious as in fragile. I’ve come to appreciate anew the
extraordinary radical beauty and fragility of the other people in my life.
I’ve
realized I’ve taken the human beings around me for granted. And I’ve Covid,
dratted blasted Covid, to thank.
Here’s the
thing about the world before all of this. I spent a lot of time thinking about
me, and my self-determination, and my desires. And the big problem of focusing
one’s life on ‘me’ is that when the people I bump into along the way don’t seem
as committed to my version of my own desires, it’s too easy to see everyone
else as being somehow in the way.
Perhaps the
perfect encapsulation of life before all this is the packed tube-carriage,
where, even if I’m gracious enough to stand for the journey, everyone between
me and the sliding doors too easily becomes obstacles in my path. It’s so easy
to get irritated with the obstacle in the path.
And in the world,
before all this, with so much already digitally available and anonymously
delivered, it was already too easy to forget that there the people in
Deliveroo’s dark kitchens and people in Amazons’ fulfillment centres.
And it’s
not, of course, that the digitally available nature of the world has retreated,
with Covid, but, in the heart of lockdown, the only other person I would actually
see, for real, would be the delivery driver. With the tube carriages so empty, when
the only other humans I would see – for real – are delivery drivers, it was
somehow easier for me to see the other people around me for who they really
are.
And that’s
important because other people don’t deserve to be seen as obstacles in my way.
Other people
are miracles wrapped up in chromosomes and sinews and skin, precious in their
beauty, and precious in their fragility. Even the most fragile of lives, even
the most ugly.
Here’s a
moment from the Talmud.[1]
It happened that Rabbi Elazar was travelling from Migdal
Gedor, he was riding his donkey along the riverbank. And he came upon an
exceedingly ugly man, who said to him “Peace to you my rabbi,” And the rabbi didn’t
reply, but said to him, “Oh empty one, how ugly are you? Please don’t tell me
that all the people of your village are as ugly as you are.” And the ugly man
responded, “I don’t know about that, why don’t you ask the artisan who made me,
“How ugly is this vessel you made.””
And the Rabbi realizes they have sinned, and he gets down
from his donkey, and prostrates himself on the ground and pleads for
forgiveness. It’s a great story, and an incredible story for the Rabbis to have
included in the Talmud.
The
craftsman, of course, is God. And the essence of God’s craft, in creating each of
us, is that we are created in the image of the divine. And when we jostle up
against people who seem to be in our way or surplus to my thought-to-be vital
needs of the moment, what we really need to do is bear witness to the divinity
enfolded in each precious human being around us. The challenge is to see the
beauty through the ugliness and perfection in their fragility.
Actually
it’s even more important than that.
When we look
out at another person we see, or at least we should see, two things – the
things we share, and the things we don’t. We should be struck by singular
nature of the human race, of our brotherhood and sisterhood shared all
humanity.
And then we
should see the difference between each and every human, never before and never
again will there ever be a human just like me, or you, or anyone. We are each
so precious in our uniqueness.
And, of
course, all of that should move us to ethical behaviour, to a deep commitment
to a decency when confronted by other people that goes beyond simple
politeness.
But more
than that, a focus on the beauty and the fragility of every other human is a
pathway to happiness. I’ll whisper this piece – witnessing the preciousness of
others is a more effective pathway to happiness than focusing on our own needs.
The more we pursue our own needs, the more dis-ease we feel with how much we
are being stymied at every turn. The more we test the quality of our existence
by how much we value other people, the easier, the more joyous and the more
delightful life becomes.
And I know
other people can be annoying, and I know it can so easily feel that everyone
else in the world is utterly focused on getting in my way, but if, when we look
out at other people, we see the miraculous, divine nature of their existence
then perhaps it will be easier to understand why they are behaving in ways we
cannot, at this precise moment, understand.
In some
ways, what I’m trying to articulate is the point of coming to a Synagogue – a
Bet HaCanesset – a house of coming together. It’s to bear witness to other
precious people who are bit like us, and a bit different. And we are here
together to be moved by the miracle of being in the same place as other human
beings, by the precious nature of human existence.
And it’s not
that I don’t understand the decisions made by those who feel unable to come
inside a building, I do understand. And if you are still with us at the end of
a two-hour stream, I’m a little bit in awe, and so grateful.
And it’s not
that I don’t understand that there are many who are happier in their own
company than in the jostle of crowds, even in a non-pandemic world. That’s
all-good too and it might be that introverts get this truth more profoundly
that extroverts; properly witnessing the existence of other people should be
exhausting.
But this is
work for us all. I want to try something, for those of us in the room, and
those of us on the stream, you can play along with me as a partner. Look
around, right now. Let your gaze land on someone you might know, or someone who
might not. You won’t be able to see their smile, so imagine they are smiling.
Look for their eyes. I know – we’re in England and this sort of thing probably
feels very embarrassing. But look, look on. And if you are fortunate enough to
be being looked at, go on, smile. Even from behind your mask.
What do you
see? Is it precious and beautiful and fragile? If it isn’t … keep looking. It
will be soon.
Give a
gentle nod, a nod that says, “I see you, my beautiful, fragile fellow human.
Thank you for being beautiful and fragile and holding my gaze.”
And be ready
to break that moment. Sorry. But hold on to that feeling. Hold on to that
understanding of what it means to see preciousness in other people. And take it
with you when you leave today, into the world out there, into the year out
there.
And may it
bring a sense of delight, and instill a sense of decency and warmth, and may it
draw all those things to you.
And may we
all be blessed with a year of sweetness and joy and health,
Shannah
Tovah to us all
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