From the Rabbi

As we bask in the warm beauty of summer on the North Fork, we find ourselves in the middle of one of Judaism’s great annual events — an unfolding drama of alienation and reconciliation. It begins with the disastrous “Three Weeks,” culminating in Tisha B’Av — the anniversary of the destruction of the Temples and the horrifying alienation of exile. This is followed by the “Seven Weeks” of consolation, culminating in Rosh Hashanah, the Ten Days of Penitence, and Yom Kippur.

We go from ungodly devastation to moments with The Divine.

How? Or, more specifically, what is the magic in the human-divine relationship that allows the mistakes of the past to be forgiven and, if not forgiven, then forgotten?

My friend and teacher Rabbi Philip Pohl taught me the magic. He told me this painful story: A family in his congregation suffered the devastating loss of a child. The family relied heavily on the rabbi for emotional support. Initially, all went as well as it could under such tragic circumstances. But then, the rabbi came face to face with every rabbi’s worst nightmare: The time for the unveiling was somehow not recorded on his calendar, and he missed it. Despite all the heartfelt apologies, his relationship with the family was shattered.

Years passed. Rabbi Pohl was teaching a class about the High Holy Days, and he mentioned the classic rabbinic image of HaShem making a record of our deeds in the Book of Life. In the audience was the bereaved mother, a professional calligrapher. She asked the question, “What kind of pen does HaShem use?” And Rabbi Pohl responded, “I’m not sure what kind of pen it is, but there’s one thing I do know — the pen has an eraser.”

The effect was electric. Cathartic. Even G-d, they both understood, has an eraser. At that moment, Rabbi Pohl and his congregant were able to renew their bond, their friendship, and their sacred relationship.

So, too, with all of us. We have all experienced hurt and betrayal — sometimes intentional, sometimes not. Our trauma is not a figment of our imagination, not something to be denied or dismissed. The hurt is real. But so is the hope that we can find the erasers to rewrite the book, to forgive and to be forgiven.

Our congregation has gone through some difficult times recently and, G-d knows, the people of Israel have been going through difficult times as well. There are no magic wands to wave to make it all better.

But pens with erasers are the next best thing.

Let us hope that during the upcoming holidays, HaShem will give us the twin gifts of forgiveness and the power to forgive.

—Rabbi Robert L. Wolkoff

The morning service is not one long extended event, but rather a series of events, like scenes and acts in a play, or movements in a symphony. For those who understand it, it is filled with sweeping crescendos and moments of high drama.

The basic structure is this: We begin with a short series of prayers, focusing on our personal identity, place, and time. This is called Birkot Hashachar, morning blessings.

This is followed by Pesukei D’zimra, psalms to get us collectively into the mood for prayer. We pray that we can pray (it ain’t easy). We then enter the core of the morning service, Shacharit, which centers on the Sh’ma, the recognition of our relationship with G-d, and the Amidah, the standing prayer that symbolically brings us into the divine palace. This is sometimes followed by the Torah service, where with great ceremony we take the Torah scroll from the ark and relive the moment of revelation at Sinai. And this is followed on Shabbat and holidays by the Musaf service, a special celebration of days when our relationship with G-d takes on a unique character and becomes even closer than normal.

Each section of the service symbolizes a change of mood and a transformation: from introspection to outreach to recognition to relationship to attentiveness to celebration.

The proper attitude when entering a synagogue for services is therefore: prepare to be transformed.

Rabbi Robert Wolkoff

Prayer is the pathway to G-d, the experience of a dimension of our lives which transcends the day-to-day, and reminds us that we have a place in eternity.

Sounds great, but we live at a time when talent for praying is not our strongest suit.

To pray well, we must get in touch with our deepest selves. That is no easy task.

To pray well, we must “know before Whom we stand.” No easy task, either.

To pray well, we must overcome the gap between ourselves, limited human beings with all our failings, and the Divine, Who will hear our prayers if we could only articulate them. Even harder.

And yet, we do pray. And one of the reasons we pray is that prayer is a way to get in touch with our deepest selves, of knowing before Whom we stand, and of overcoming the gap between ourselves and the Divine.

In other words, prayer helps us become capable of…prayer. No wonder the great rabbis of old used to pray for an hour each day that they would be able to pray.

And we don’t just pray as individuals. At best, we pray as a group, as a community, as a minyan. And in minyan, there is mystery.

Something special happens when we come together. By being together, we create something unique. Anchored in the history of our faith, we create something that brings us closer to G-d than any of us, individually, could ever come.

That is why, when davening in a minyan, we can say prayers (like the Kaddish) that we can’t say when we are alone. Coming together in a minyan is a crucial part of our Jewish identity. It is a concrete reminder that a Jew is never really alone. Consequently we urge people to pick a day a week or a day a month to go to minyan; to come for the yahrzeits of people they know, and for the yahrzeits of people they don’t know; to come before a meeting or a class at your shul; to come for a reason, or for no reason at all; to come just because you’re Jewish. Because this is what Jews do.

Rabbi Robert L. Wolkoff