the gravitron and my journey through the year: Rosh Hashanah 5785 day 1

If I could choose one image, one metaphor to capture the singular challenge of living through this year, it would be Ernst Hoffmeister’s Rotor, the beloved carnival ride that uses centripetal force to fling its passengers to the wall of a rapidly-spinning cylinder, all while the floor drops out from beneath the rider’s feet. 

The Rotor was invented in 1948, and quickly became a favorite at carnivals, fairs, and amusement parks across Europe and the United States. The Rotor has gone by many names in its storied life– Tunnel of Fun, the Silly Silo. For me, it was the Gravitron– and I had my own turn to confront this incomprehensible, mechanical monster of physical audacity with my friend Carrie, at Navy Pier, sometime in middle school. 

We had spent most of the day running through an exhibition hall, colliding with funhouse mirrors and collecting perforated paper tickets in cotton candy pastels, hoping to win the day at the prize counter- when Carrie grabbed my hand and pointed straight ahead. “We haven’t tried that one,” she said, her eyes wide and her voice urgent but also dreamy and distant. We got in line, and we waited. And as we wove our way through the boundaried line, I thought it would be prudent to ask, what even is this ride? What exactly happens on the Gravitron? Quickly, and without a hint of fear, Carrie said, “Oh, you spin around really fast and the floor disappears.” All the alarm bells in my mind went off at once-- signaling danger. No thanks, I thought. I couldn’t make sense of the mechanics of the Gravitron, or its purpose, because having the floor drop out from beneath my feet seemed to me to be one of the more terrifying things that could happen to a person. Why would I willingly put myself in the path of G-d’s hunger? Why would I chance being swallowed up whole by the earth? I couldn’t bear this breach of reality or physics. And I didn’t trust that I wouldn’t fall through the floor. 

This year, it feels like we’re riding the Gravitron and we can’t get off. And I’ve thought about that day at Navy Pier a lot this year, as if the difficulty of this moment, the spiral, the sheer force of it all has knocked the memory loose, and brought it back to the fore. I can’t seem to shake that feeling of fear, of anxiety, the tightness in my throat. The certain dread that I would be one of the unlucky ones. This memory feels as real as ever, like a lucid dream; because it feels like the floor has collapsed beneath us all. Between the unimaginable and still unfolding horrors of October 7th and the ensuing war in Gaza; the new threat of widespread war in the middle east, the rapid and seemingly now inevitable decay of our planet; the scourge of gun violence gone unchecked; the deaths of otherwise healthy women at the hands of the American healthcare system; the rise in antisemitism; the existential fear for our democracy– each of these worthy of their own sermon, at least. Each of these requiring their own season of repentance, at least– it feels like we are spinning at warp speed, and the attendant who usually pushes the big red stop button has left his post. 

The cumulative effect of all this tragedy is tearing us apart, because it’s too much for our tender, precious hearts to bear. So I have tried, for the better part of this year, to learn how to cope, to learn how to heal, to learn how to go forward. Because, I fear, the alternative would crush me. So I want to share with you what I’ve learned; what wisdom I feel I have mined from our tradition– three options for responding to crisis, chaos, and uncertainty that have left me feeling a little bit less alone through it all. 

I like to think that I’m strong. That I have mental focus and moral clarity. I have lived through personal tragedy; and I think for too long, I’ve told myself that I could handle whatever life throws at me. Stoic, maybe even a martyr of my own making. I like to believe that resilience will always win, that we could grow and change and evolve into a new and perhaps truer version of ourselves– that there could be something beautiful on the other side of suffering. But this year, through the constant din of bad news, I’ve cried out to G-d, raged at G-d, wanted to turn my back on G-d, because none of this feels true anymore. I haven’t felt very strong, and I have wondered where I would find the strength necessary to keep walking. What well might I draw from? It feels absurd, ridiculous, impossible. And sometimes, I’ve wanted to run. Like Jonah, who in a moment of doubting and disagreeing with G-d, does his very best to flee. And Jonah, pushes back against what we all know to be true, that you can’t really outrun or hide from the Divine. But even still, his attempt to reject his reality, to try to find quiet, maybe even in the belly of a great big fish, feels relatable. And so I’ve found a friend in Jonah. Because now, more than ever, I understand that instinct, and at times have wanted to pack up the kids and the minivan, take only what was absolutely necessary, and just drive. No destination in mind, except to a kind of eden, a place where we might be free of all this suffering. So I’m here to tell you, that if you’ve ever felt like running away, if you’ve ever wanted to escape or disappear, you’re not alone. Not here, but also not in our tradition. 

But running, Jonah teaches us, doesn’t actually work. Because G-d rescues Jonah from the belly of the fish, and guides Jonah through the terribly difficult work of extending forgiveness, and offering the possibility of Teshuvah to his enemies. 

Option 1: Run. 

In tractate Shabbat of the Babylonian Talmud, written in the early days of Jewish diaspora, the rabbis consider the case of a traveler who has been journeying through a remote, uninhabited area for a number of days. This traveler hasn’t passed through a town, or had any contact with other human beings for some time. They’ve lost track of time, and don't know what day it is. Unable to discern distinctions of space and time, the rabbis wonder how this sojourner will know when Shabbat begins. How can someone, walking through a wilderness properly observe Shabbat? 

The resolution may surprise you, because it surprised me. The traveler, the rabbis teach, should count six days and designate the seventh as their Shabbat. In this wilderness, this empty, wide-open, unformed place, the traveler, you, me, can make new meaning, can make new joy, find new rest. My teacher, Rabbi Gordon Tucker, suggests that while this instruction cannot possibly produce a correct observance of the actual Shabbat, it is nevertheless a way of adapting to the (perhaps temporarily) incorrigible doubt, while maintaining, through thought and liturgy, a presence of the holiness of time in one’s life. 

I can relate to this lonesome traveler– because I have been her. Doing my best to push through a wilderness with no familiar landmarks to punctuate the journey. Alone, disoriented, wondering desperately, how I will be me again. When I might return to the safety and the simcha, the deep joy and peace of Shabbat– to the way things were, to that palace in time where we can see into the future and taste the perfection of the world as it should be, as it one day will be. 

I think we have all felt alone at some point this year. Feeling like we are struggling in isolation, trying to heal in isolation. Maybe you feel like you are the only one who really cares. The only one who knows the truth. And maybe, you feel like it’s safer to be alone– that maybe the only way to protect yourself and your soul right now is to retreat. And if any of these sound like you, you too, have been the lonesome traveler, the solitary sojourner. 

And the rabbis meet our loneliness, our grief, and our uncertainty and proclaim that there is a way forward. That we can make new meaning, create new ways to count six and honor seven. Given this new unformed reality in which we find ourselves, given the uneven, unrecognizable terrain, we must make something new. We don’t give up on Shabbat, or on the possibility of finding our way back to the fullness of community. Rather, we think about Shabbat, and about the journey, differently in light of new information and our new context. We create a Shabbat that meets the moment. 

Option 2: We build something important, but temporary. A Shabbat, something that is momentarily meaningful, but meant only for me, has space for only me. 

Every Friday night, our community gathers for Kabbalat Shabbat, the service that is itself a doorway to Shabbos. Kabbalat Shabbat is intimate, it’s sweet, replete with joyous, hopeful psalms and beautiful, familiar melodies. Friday nights at OZS are small, and we don’t always have a minyan. But that means I can hear every voice, that we can add a poem or share a feeling because we all see each other, can feel what the moment needs. And it means I can dwell in the liturgy just a little bit longer as Shabbat begins. 

The high point of the Kabbalat Shabbat service is Lecha Dodi, and week after week, for the better part of this year, I seem to have lived, taken up residence in one stanza. I’ve read it, done battle with it, have fallen in love with it. And it has singularly transformed me and how I think about who we are and the work ahead. 

מִקְדַּש מֶלֶךְ עִיר מְלוּכָה. קוּמִי צְאִי מִתּוךְ הַהֲפֵכָה

רַב לָךְ שבֶת בְּעֵמֶק הַבָּכָא. וְהוּא יַחֲמול עָלַיִךְ חֶמְלָה

Sanctuary of the King, city of royalty. Rise and go forth from the ruins. Too long have you sat in the valley of sorrow. And G-d will shower you with compassion. ...

I have probably sung Lecha Dodi a thousand times in my life. But this year, I saw something in these words I hadn’t noticed before. I felt that they were speaking to me, to us, that they captured the truth of this gravity-defying year. There are two phrases in this stanza that I think give us a kind of permission to admit just how much pain we are in. The first:

קוּמִי צְאִי מִתּוךְ הַהֲפֵכָה

Rise and go forth from the ruins

The word Hafeicha, here, translated as ruins, can perhaps more accurately be understood as a reversal, a revolution, a turning over of everything we knew to be true. So much this year has been turned over, turned into its opposite. Made different and at times hideous. Our world unrecognizable. So when Shlomo Halevi Alkabetz, the 16th Century author of Lecha Dodi, borrows G-d’s voice to tell us to pull ourselves up, perhaps he is writing from a similar place of dislocation, confusion and fear. The world may be upside down now, turned over on its head, but it needn’t be forever. קומי צאי– Get up! Wake up! Hear and heed the Shofar’s call and right the ship. 

And the second:

רַב לָךְ שבֶת בְּעֵמֶק הַבָּכָא

Too long have you sat in the valley of sorrow

Some months after October 7th, I read this, sang this with a weak and broken voice, and started to cry. Because I felt, still feel, that I have been drowning in our very own valley of sorrow, this gully of grief and tears, wondering how and if we could ever learn to swim, like salmon, against the current. And I found this acknowledgment, this validation of our pain so powerful, it was a lifeboat, a hand reaching out from the pages of the siddur, from the peaks and valleys, from the wisdom of Jewish tradition. A voice that carried through space and time to tell me, to tell us, that we’ve been here before, and we would be ok. Suddenly, it dawned on me that we weren’t actually alone at all. That I was never alone at all.  

And once we can acknowledge, really make space for our pain, can we do the work of rebuilding. And what are we meant to build? Our text opens with the answer. We are meant to build a Mikdash Melech, an Ir Melucha. A sanctuary and a city. Simply put, we are meant to build community, we are meant to be in community. The only thing that can draw us up and out of our sorrow, is community. The only thing that can help us meaningfully push back against and reject the cynicism, pessimism, and real fear of our time, is community. This is our third option. It’s harder, and it will take longer. But it may very well be the thing that saves us. 

Option 3: We build something to last. We commit to continue building this community in ways that honor our diversity, make space for the myriad of religious experience and preference. We build a place with walls that are sturdy but expansive, able to grow, as if by magic, to hold every single one of us. We build a community where the ground is solid beneath our feet. Where sorrow and joy are honored in equal measure. A place where we can begin to heal, together. 

That’s why, starting today, we begin our OZS Year of Connection. This year, we will plant new seeds and strengthen our roots. Starting today, we are going to double down on our commitment to keep building a community that can hold each one of us in our pain, in our questions, our apprehensions, but also in our joys, and loves, and talents. On Rosh Hashanah, we start anew. We begin once again to delight in the holy gift of building landmarks and mile markers for the weary traveler who needs a place to rest for Shabbat; a place where peace is possible, a home. 

This year, we will pay even closer attention, and ask questions that prompt each of us to think carefully, honestly, and more deeply about what brings us to OZS; we’ll reflect on what being Jewish means to us, and commit to being partners in the unfolding creation of this community. 

This year, we are setting an important and ambitious goal to connect with every single community member, and to find ways, together, to create touchpoints and entryways that are meaningful, and speak directly to what you are looking for in Jewish community. What does your soul need, how can we help heal your heart?

Maybe you’re here after having run away. And maybe you have arrived after a lonesome journey. Maybe you were carried to our doorstep on a tumultuous wave of grief and fear. Maybe you came here to find some peace. But if you are looking around and wondering how you got here, the answer is simple. This is your home, and you have always belonged here. 

In his song, Like a Circle, Australian musician, Ben Abraham, writes:

So make my love like a circle

Ground on which I can depend

Give me love like a circle

And I'll be happy then

Here, the ground is solid. Because it is ground that is built of love and strength and connection. I don’t know what the future holds, none of us do. And I can’t promise that the difficulty of this year will wash away, will rush past like the stream that gobbles up our sins during Tashlich. 

But I can promise you, that the ground, the foundations, the roots here at OZS will always be strong, this will always be a place and a community on which you can depend. Here, you can come up for air, catch your breath. Here, you can come in from the cold, rest your weary feet. Here we can help each other climb out of the valley of sorrow–even if only for a moment. 

And so I beg you, please, take my hand, let’s make the journey into this new year together and build something beautiful.