From the Rabbi

How does one start to summarize a year like 2020? A year in which so much was beyond our control. A year of re-learning, re-inventing, re-calculating, re-living. At the end of every year, Google publishes the most searched words of the last 12 months. It wouldn’t surprise anyone to find out that this year, the most searched word was “Coronavirus.”

One of the positives of this year’s vicissitudes was the use of Zoom. It brought people together in a new way. It also gave birth to a new locution: “You’re muted…!”  Anyone who used Zoom this year, which is pretty much everyone, has heard those words a lot. What started as a minor annoyance quickly became an amusing mantra. “You’re muted…You’re muted…!”

I find this to be one of the most fascinating phenomena of this year. It was a year we learned to mute ourselves and to let other people speak. It taught us to be silent, to wait our turn, and not take for granted that we can speak and be heard instantaneously. What Robert’s Rules of Order couldn’t do since 1876, Zoom did in one year. A social experiment in finding our voice. Perhaps this is the ultimate message that God is waiting for us to internalize — that our voice is not ours alone, but part of a shared conversation.

In Parashat Miketz, which we always read during Hanukkah, Joseph’s lot changes in an instant from the depths to the heights (from Bira Amikta L’igra Rama). In one day, he is hurled from jail to becoming the viceroy of Egypt, from incarceration to beyond imagination. But in between, when Pharaoh was expecting to hear Joseph’s solution to his dreams, Joseph used the key word — Bil’aday — without me. He was telling Pharaoh that his voice was really God’s voice. And just like the story of Hanukkah, in one quick act, the light shines through again.

We are not muted as long as we can keep telling our story together. More importantly, to make the story, continue to create the story. We did it during worse times. Even if we think we’re muted, God continues to hear.

The Talmud tells us that when we go up to heaven, one of the first questions we will be asked is whether we were sincerely hopeful in our lives, whether we sincerely expected to be saved and redeemed at any moment. Because only then can we experience the swift hand of God. It may not come for a while, but when it’s time, it will be quick, as though waking up from a dream. When we mute ourselves for a minute, we let God’s voice come through.

With hopes for complete healing in 2021,

—Rabbi Gadi Capela

Nine years ago, we started a journey together. When I consider that time, a few important thoughts come to mind. Relationships are a motivating force for me. I was privileged to know many in the previous generation — the Levin brothers, Stanley Rubin, Aaron Novick, Sy Brittman, and so many more — and now the next generation of shul leaders. 

            I also learned that there is no such thing as “a starter shul.” Just as there is no “starter family.” Some rabbis simply fit better in small settings, where the congregation is like family. To me, Congregation Tifereth Israel is family.  

            Over the years, our congregation has grown in many ways — in membership and relationship, in technology and learning. Our international High Holidays services showed us that our positive atmosphere and growth could reverberate beyond our small historic building. Zoom has allowed us to share our successful Lunch and Learn programs and our Jewish history series without geographical borders.  

            We have also expanded our partnership with the larger community, through the Greenport Ecumenical Ministries (GEM), the East End Jewish Community Council (EEJCC), and with Project Genesis Interfaith. Our president, Judith Weiner, and her new board, with the help of Andrea Blaga in the office, have been doing a wonderful job to move us ahead by envisioning new initiatives.

            Before I became a rabbi, I believed in the power of the individual; now I see the power of the congregation. Can we be a haven for the diverse nations here in Greenport? Can the Torah be our guide as believers? We are a unique microcosm here, so small yet so diverse. Let us be a model for the nations. 

            The secret is to find the right balance between the particular and the universal. At one of his lectures a few years ago at the 92nd Street Y, the late Rabbi Jonathan Saks z”l mentioned a conversation he’d had with Paul Johnson, a Catholic historian, who wrote the important book: A History of the Jews.  Rabbi Saks said to Paul Johnson, “You are Catholic. You must have spent years researching Jews and Judaism. What most impressed you?” 

Mr. Johnson replied that throughout history, there have been famous individualistic cultures, such as Athens, Renaissance Italy, contemporary West. And there have been collectivist cultures like Chinese Communism. None were able to embrace both at the same time. But Jews have had that gift, an incredible sense of the importance of the individual but, at the same time, an equally powerful sense of collective responsibility. In the words of Hillel, the Talmudic sage: “If I’m not for myself, who will be for me? But if I’m only for myself, what am I?” (M. Avot 1:14) 

  Happy Thanksgiving to all,

 —Rabbi Gadi Capela

A couple of weeks ago, a man handed my friend Father Roy a fire hose nozzle. “Please return it to its rightful owners for me,” he said. The man, who was a firefighter on Sept. 11, 2001, had been called to Ground Zero a few days after the disaster for search and rescue duty. In the rubble, he dug out a 1.5-inch hose with the number 214 etched to it. He knew where it came from —  Company 214 on Hancock Street in Brooklyn. The whole company, all five men on the truck, aside from the driver, perished in Tower 2.

The man decided to keep the nozzle, just for a while. The while became a year, and a year became 19 years. Finally, in 2020, he felt he could not in good conscience hold it any longer. The nozzle was still covered with the thick dust of that day in 2001. He wanted to return it but after all these years, he was reluctant to reveal his identity. Had he violated the code of honor? Yet, he felt compelled to return the only relic connected to the fallen five. There could be no mention of his name. This was the condition.

The day Father Roy was to return the nozzle, he asked me to join him. He said we could both pray for the memory of the company. When we arrived, the firefighters were standing in formation, all of them. The local chief and other administrators were present as well. We didn’t know how they were going to react. Would they ask about the anonymous donor?

In fact, there were no questions from the men, only the will to embrace this last memory from the past. But something there was directed to the future. To remember. To never forget. Father Roy explained that the donor was fearful that the men would be angry with him for keeping this trophy. “He kept it in sacred memory.” Father Roy said. Those diffusing words confirmed for the men that the nozzle had not been kept as a souvenir. It was kept in honor. They received it in sacred memory.

All of those who were present at this moment, but one man, had joined that station after 9/11/01. The one who knew all those who had died, pointed at their pictures as he named them. We could sense the familiarity and connection. The firehouse is a fire home. He knew it was Firefighter Kenneth Watson, who was assigned to that nozzle that day. He also shared with us that the son of one of the fallen was now serving in this very house. It was emotional for all of us. Out of the ashes, the next generation had appeared.

How many prayers have been prayed over the years for the first responders? Millions. We added one more. Father Roy recited The Lord’s Prayer, and I, Psalm 23. One more sacred moment of sacred memory.

—Rabbi Gadi Capela