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Ben Einsidler

Tears of Grief, Tears of Joy- Rosh Hashanah 5785, Day 1

I need to start my sermon this morning with a warning: I’m going to be talking, in part, about last October 7 and my experience of that day, with details of what happened that day both to me and to Israelis. I know that many details of that day are beyond grisly, and while I won’t be discussing them in depth here, they are very much on my mind and inform what I have to say this morning. I acknowledge that some of them may be difficult to hear. 

Last Shemini Atzeret- a Shabbat, October 7, 2023, my phone had multiple alerts in the morning when I woke up. It’s not usually my custom to look at my phone on Shabbat and yontif, but I got the sense from the frequency of the alerts that something unusual was going on. Upon learning what was happening, I was filled with shock and horror, sadness and anger, helplessness and hopelessness. 

I was transported- against my will, from 6,000 or so miles away into the most dire and dangerous situation that Israel has faced since 1948. All the horrible stories of pogroms, and the events of the Shoah, seemed to come to life: hostages taken. Men, women, and children murdered. Rape and sexual crimes of the most vicious, dehumanizing kind. People of all ages murdered gleefully. To add terrible insult to injury, much of this awful mayhem was recorded, and then sadistically uploaded to social media by Hamas, where it could be viewed by others around the world. 

I made my way to Brandeis University in a near-daze, where I was scheduled to lead that day’s Shabbat and yontif services for the Conservative/Masorti student minyan. To my surprise, and both relief and sadness, it appeared that the students largely did not know what was happening. Many of them hadn’t checked their phones, or heard the news. I decided to not say anything for the time being and tried to concentrate on my davening, trying to hold back tears as best I could. 

Later that morning, a fairly high-level administrator entered the room and somewhat discreetly beckoned me over during the Torah service while other students were leading. We stepped outside and she gave me the latest update. An email had already been sent from the university administration to all students condemning the attack, and that all Brandeis students in Israel had been contacted and were safe and accounted for. Several were already making their way back to the United States, looking to escape the oncoming war they were sure was coming. I asked her if I should make an announcement in services, and we ultimately decided not to. I could tell, however, that by the end of services that morning, many students had discovered the horrifying details, and we exchanged wordless nods while making eye contact. There were no words to be said- what could possibly be said at such a time? 

For the next several days, I was numb and continued to be dazed. I was overcome with a horrible combination of anger, sadness, and outrage, all of which I struggled to contain at times in those awful first days back in school. Hebrew College was engulfed by those same feelings, and it was all-encompassing at times. I longed for relief, and eventually mustered up the wherewithal to therapeutically write out some thoughts in bullet-point form before the following Shabbat on October 13. Here are some excerpts from my writing that day: 

  1. I’ve slept less, cried more, and have been more dazed this week than at any time I can remember. Only since Wednesday [October 11] have I felt like I have my “sea legs”, and ever since then a small semblance of normal (or whatever qualifies as “normal” in this hellscape) has been returning. 
  2. Yes, I know many people in Israel- friends and family. Some of them have been called up to the army, some are studying in Jerusalem, and some I have no idea what their whereabouts are. I’m one or two degrees removed from people whose family members have been murdered or taken hostage and have been praying for them. It’s excruciating. Things will never be the same. 
  3. It’s terrifying to realize, again, that there are people in our communities that would gladly see me and my loved ones dead, and relish the prospect of the destruction of the world’s only Jewish state. 
  4. I’ve been gratified to hear from several non-Jewish friends who have reached out to check in on me. Please keep doing it. It’s comforting to know that we’re not on a proverbial island.
  5. I’m beyond grateful that my children aren’t old enough to fully comprehend events and I know that they’re safe in school and in shul. But the day will come when they’re old enough to know specifics, and the thought of them learning them is heart-wrenching. 
  6. The most comfort I’ve found this week has been in Torah study. Antisemites hate nothing more than Jews being outwardly, proudly Jewish, and I intend to keep doing that. 
  7. I’m not sure if I’ve ever needed Shabbat more than I do now. 

October 7 last year fell on Shemini Atzeret. I’ve always had an affinity for this particular holiday. It’s a day that doesn’t celebrate anything in particular- it’s almost like an “after party” for the host and their select, close guests after a simcha. There’s a tradition that after the seven days of Sukkot, G-d is not yet ready for us to stop celebrating with them. So, in infinite graciousness, G-d entreats us to stay with them for one day more, not doing any work, and hanging out “just because”. That day, to me, will never feel the same. Never again will I feel the same sense of relaxation and gratitude that that day brings. 

To be almost comically understated: it has been a hard year. Today, on Rosh Hashanah, we stand in judgment for our thoughts, words and actions over the past year and also welcome the new year, into which we pour our hopes and aspirations. This past year, which has been so unlike any other we’ve experienced in living memory, has been a year when both individually and collectively we have been tried and tested in the worst possible way. In a so-called “normal” year, this would be a change-filled and tumultuous time. It is all the more so against the backdrop of war. 

In our Torah reading today, we read of the sorrow-filled experience of Hagar, who first flees Abraham and his clan on account of Sarah’s mistreatment of her, and is now once again sent away at Sarah’s behest. Sarah, seeing Hagar’s son Ishmael which she bore to Abraham, grows jealous and demands that he not share in the inheritance that is due to Isaac, who is her son. Abraham gives Hagar and her son some bread and a small amount of water, and when she and her son grow weary, without sustenance, she places her son “a bowshot away”, as the text says, under a bush, so that she won’t look on as the child dies. Hagar is desperately sad- so forlorn that she bursts into tears and weeps. 

G-d then hears the cry of the boy, and a messenger of G-d calls to Hagar and says that her cry has been heard. Opening her eyes from her weeping, she is shown a well of water, which will enable her and her son to live. In the midst of unbearable pain and sadness, she is given a sign of hope and material help. When all appears to be lost, she is given a lifeline; something that will pull her out of her grief and enable her to continue on. 

The sound of the shofar, which called out a few minutes ago, has itself been likened to cries of sadness, as well as shouts of joy. It’s been taught that when words fail, whether due to sadness or happiness, we often turn to sobbing as a means of expressing emotion nonverbally. Rabbi Daniel Lehmann has written: “The blasts of the shofar throughout this season of awe are focused inward toward human consciousness and self-reflection, while at the same time directed outward as a call to God’s merciful judgment, a cry that becomes a shout for joy in recognition of God’s compassion for our human condition.” 

In the midst of my own sadness in the days immediately after October 7, the thing that first caused me to feel a sense of joy was, like Hagar, also a sign of life. A few days after that horrible day, I was positively overjoyed to hear of the birth of a new baby girl to friends of mine from rabbinical school, who had gone through a struggle with infertility. “Thank G-d”, I said to myself- this time through happy tears- “there are still Jewish babies being born”. At such a terrible moment, I am still able to find hope and gratitude. I sent my friend a message with the heartiest of mazel tovs, and I told him how the news of his daughter’s birth was the first thing that made me smile in days. 

In the midst of darkness and fear, there is still hope- just as Hagar experiences when she sees the well of water. On that day, for the first time, my tears turned to ones of happiness as opposed to ones of sorrow. It was such a catharsis to realize that, in the face of unimaginable tragedy, the Jewish people continued to not only survive, but thrive. 

The shofar is blown throughout the month of Elul as a call to self-reflection, and today it is also a sound of celebration. The name of the holiday of Rosh Hashanah in the Torah, found in our maftir aliyah today, is Yom Teruah– literally, a “day of blasting”, or making a great noise. It’s a sound that we associate with the celebration of the new year, and it is also blown on other momentous occasions- in Israel, for example, it’s not uncommon for people making aliyah to be greeted at the airport by others loudly blowing the shofar to herald their arrival. In that instance, and in so many others, there are tears of pain that can become tears of joy. 

In our haftarah, too, tears play a prominent role. Hannah is repeatedly distraught at being unable to bear children, and prays to G-d for a son- as the text says, “weeping all the while:(וּבָכֹ֥ה תִבְכֶּֽה When she finally bears a son, who will become the prophet Samuel, her sorrow turns to joy, placing her in the same pattern set by Hagar in the Torah. 

The Talmud teaches in tractate Bava Metzia that since the destruction of the Temple, the gates of prayer are locked, but the gates of tears are always open. The sages interpret this as meaning that even when prayer is no longer enough, people should still cry out to G-d with all their heart; for G-d comforts the brokenhearted and listens to those who are in distress. 

Like Hagar, the sign of life that came to me was unexpected. Although Hagar has already had one experience of divine intervention, her hopelessness in our Torah reading is evidence, to me, that she did not at all expect it a second time. I will share that personally, it’s not always easy for me to see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I don’t always know what’s going to happen. While I try to see it and hope for it- whatever it is- it is undoubtedly hard at times. I don’t know from whence it will come- but I have faith that it will. 

As an optimist, I believe that even in our darkest moments, both individually and communally, there is hope. We learn repeatedly in the tradition that community is a strength from which we can draw hope. In the Talmud in tractate Taanit we learn: “Anyone who is distressed together with the community will merit seeing the consolation of the community.” I choose, especially during this season, to take that teaching to heart. May we all, both individually and as a community, merit to see Israel and the Jewish people overcome the challenges of the moment and be consoled. May our tears of sadness be transformed into tears of joy, and may we all be sealed for good in the coming year, 5785. Shanah tovah- may it be a good and sweet year for us, and the entire Jewish people. 

About the Author
Ben Einsidler serves as rabbi at Temple Beth Sholom in Framingham, Massachusetts. He received rabbinic ordination from Hebrew College in Boston, where he previously earned Master’s degrees in Jewish education and Jewish studies. He completed a unit of Clinical Pastoral Education as part of the chaplaincy team at Beverly Hospital, and has participated in fellowships with Hadar, the iCenter, and the Shalom Hartman Institute. Rabbi Einsidler is proud to be a long-time volunteer with the Community Hevra Kadisha of Greater Boston.
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