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December 2, 2023
Author(s): Rabbi Wes Gardenswartz,
Parashat Vayishlach
Engaging the Darkness Without Becoming Dark
December 2, 2023 —19 Kislev 5784
Temple Emanuel, Newton, MA
This morning has been so beautiful, so joyful, just what we needed. Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah. Eli’s Bar Mitzvah. Ronna’s birthday. Elizabeth’s naming, three generations of love.
And the reason it is especially joyful is that things have been so dark. Eight weeks of war later, with no clear end in sight, we don’t know when it’s going to end, we don’t know how it’s going to end, it’s dark. What the hostages who have been freed have reported about their captivity, what they had to endure, is dark. The hostages who have not been freed, what they and their families are going through, is dark. The hostages who have been murdered, dark. The resumption of war, and what that means for Israelis who are now in battle, and for Gazans who are caught in the crossfire, who have been so ill served by Hamas, is dark. What do with do with all this darkness?
I have wrestled with this darkness. I have found two positions that are not helpful.
I have tried disconnecting from the heartbreak. Not reading the news. Following only sports stories. But I know that is not okay.
And I have fallen into a rabbit hole, following the news obsessively, worrying all the time, not sleeping through the night. That doesn’t help anybody.
Is there a way to engage the darkness without becoming dark? Is there a way to engage this depressing reality without becoming depressed? Is there a way to follow a story that generates heart ache and heart break every day without falling into a rabbit hole?
The holiday of Hanukkah offers us some helpful insight here.
We do not celebrate Hanukkah in the summer, when the weather is warm and sunny and the mood is happy. We celebrate Hanukkah in the cold and dark of winter. Hanukkah is a holiday for the darkness. And one of the messages of Hanukkah is that even in the darkness, there is still light to be seen, and we cannot let the darkness prevent us from seeing the light.
Since October 7, I have told the story of a young Israeli named Matanya Ben Tzofit through two photos. The first photo was Matanya, dressed in his army uniform, holding his baby daughter Ya’arah. That photo captured the poignancy of that moment: a father deeply in love with his daughter, and deeply devoted to his country, so devoted that he was willing to leave that daughter, and leave his wife, and leave the comfort of his home, to go into Gaza, where he was the commander of a tank.
As I had shared, the tank he was commanding was hit by an anti-tank missile. Two of the soldiers in his command fell in battle. Matanya was rescued from that burning tank by a medic, who happened to have also studied at Beit Prat in Jerusalem. Matanya was taken to a hospital. The second photograph was Matanya entirely covered in bandages, alive but bandaged from head to toe in a hospital room.
This week I saw a third photograph of Matanya. Thank God. He is at home. The bandages are off. He looks beautiful. Radiant. Alive. Yes the scars and trauma of battle will be a life work to work through, but he is deeply grateful to be alive. He is surrounded by friends in his home, and he and they are all smiling genuine smiles. Matanya survived the war, and will continue to be a husband to Reut, a father to Yaara, and an inspiration to Israel. The darkness is real. But the light is real too, and Hanukkah reminds us to see it.
But seeing the light in the darkness is not enough. We have to increase the light. To bring more light. What can we do, we who do not live in Israel, we who do not serve in the Israeli army, we whose loved ones do not serve, we who can press pause and not focus on the war 24 hours a day, which is not a luxury Israelis have, they can never press pause, what can we do to increase the light in Israel? I want to tell you a story of life in Israel for an ordinary soldier in the IDF that never makes the news. You won’t read about it in the paper or hear about it in a podcast or see it on television. I only know about it because this young man is part of our extended family in Israel.
He is part of a group of seven Israeli soldiers who are experts in explosives. Their job is to drive around Gaza and explode strategic targets: the homes of Hamas commanders, the tunnels. But because they are in enemy territory, they cannot leave their vehicle. Their shift is 50 hours. For 50 hours, seven men are crammed into a small vehicle, driving around Gaza. They cannot get out for any reason, or else they would be shot and killed. In fact, their vehicle was hit by an anti-tank missile, but their vehicle is so deeply armored that they survived being hit by a missile. How do they eat and drink? Answer: they bring food and water to last seven soldiers 50 hours and eat it and drink it sitting in their vehicle. How do they attend to bodily functions? Answer: they just do, in their vehicle, because they cannot get out. They eat, drink, and attend to bodily functions, seven men, in a crammed vehicle, for 50 hours at a time, as they drive around Gaza seeking to destroy tunnels and terrorists.
After their 50-hour tour of duty, they drive back into Israel, they get out of their armored vehicle, they get some time off, they breathe fresh air, and then their tour begins again. Back into the armored vehicle with all its cramped, dangerous, and unpleasant reality. Rinse and repeat throughout this awful war.
What is my point here? Why am I telling you this story? I am not a therapist. I am not a mental health professional. But can you even imagine the trauma, the accumulated trauma, the layers of trauma and depression for everyone connected to this story: to the soldiers and all their loved ones. And that is just for an ordinary day in the war.
Add to that the indescribable horrors of what Israel and Israelis have been through since October 7, and Israel is a traumatized nation, and its people are a traumatized people.
I think of it this way. There are 7.1 million Jewish Israelis. If 7.1 million compassionate, wise, helpful, skilled mental health professionals were miraculously to fly to Israel and devote themselves full-time to the mental health needs of Israelis, that would just skim the surface.
We cannot solve the challenge of the depression, anxiety and trauma that has befallen Israelis, but Rabbi Tarphon has taught us that it is not incumbent upon us to finish the task, but neither are we free to desist from trying to do what we can do.
So what can we do?
Last year–it feels like a hundred years ago, but it was last year–our congregation read the book Who By Fire by Matti Friedman, an Israeli Canadian journalist, which told the story of Leonard Cohen, the famous singer and songwriter, who went to Israel during the Yom Kippur War. Leonard Cohen spent some three weeks going from base-to-base singing songs to Israeli soldiers and pilots. I was teaching the book to a screen of about 100 Temple Emanuel congregants. We all liked the book. But one person’s comment stood out. One of our members is an Israeli. He said: I was there. I was a 20-something year old soldier on the base when Leonard Cohen sang his songs. I don’t remember his songs. I don’t remember if I liked them at the time. I didn’t even know who Leonard Cohen was. But what I do remember all these years later is that this man who did not know us, who was not Israeli, came to be with us, to support us, in our hour of need. We needed that support. His music I forgot. But his love I will never forget.
We need to do that. We are currently working on a Temple Emanuel solidarity mission to Israel, a JNF Solidarity Mission February 11-14. It will not be about touring Israel, as we did in April for Israel at 75. It will not be about learning Torah at Hartman as we do every June. It will be about volunteering, whether working fields that are otherwise laying fallow because the people who usually work them are at war, or any other ways that we can supply civilian service to a nation at war. But mostly our solidarity mission will be about love. Sharing love is the best way to increase light. Wouldn’t it be nice if some day 50 years from now Israelis say: this group came from Newton, Massachusetts. I don’t remember what they did. I don’t remember what they said. I just know that when we felt alone, they were here. Their love I will never forget.
Shabbat shalom.