Appreciating Our Community
Somebody once showed me the “Ask the Rabbi” column that was printed in a certain magazine (that is not connected to our community). The question was posed by a man who had decided sometime earlier to move to a different synagogue, and was now having second thoughts.
For years, the man and his family belonged to a wonderfully warm, friendly, inviting synagogue that had an outstanding Rabbi who was both an impressive talmid hacham and an exceptionally warm and caring person. However, although the synagogue was warm and friendly, the father was disturbed by the talking during the prayer service. He felt that this set a very negative example for his children, and so they moved to a different synagogue, where there is greater decorum and respect during the prayers. The problem was that the people in this synagogue were not as friendly. The family never really felt connected to the congregation, and so before long, the wife and daughters stopped going to prayers altogether, and the son started going to the first synagogue.
One Shabbat morning, the man overslept and could not go to the second synagogue. He told his family he would be going that morning to their original synagogue, and they all excitedly decided to join him. At the synagogue, they were all received very warmly by the members who were overjoyed that they returned. This got the man to start thinking if perhaps he should again regularly attend the first synagogue. His question was: should he attend a warm, friendly synagogue where there is talking during the service, or a synagogue which is less friendly, where his family did not feel they belonged, but where the service was conducted with the appropriate level of decorum?
The Rabbi did not give a clear-cut answer to this question. But in my humble opinion, there is no question whatsoever. In my mind, it is clear beyond a shadow of doubt, without any hesitation whatsoever, that the family should attend the first synagogue, the congregation which offers them a sense of belonging and a sense of community. As serious a prohibition as it is to speak during the prayer services, and while this is, without question, a problem that must not be ignored, we need to place ourselves in a community, somewhere where we feel a sense of belonging and connectedness, because only in such a setting are we able to grow and reach our full potential.
Finding Consolation
This message is conveyed in a subtle yet powerful way in a pair of verses in Parashat Vaet’hanan, which appear in the section which we read on Tisha B’Av.
The Torah describes the time when Beneh Yisrael will worship idols and will be then sent into exile. After this happens, we are told, ובקשתם משם את ה' אלוקיך ומצאת...בצר לך...ושבת עד ה' אלוקיך – “From there you will seek out Hashem your G-d and you will find Him… In your distress…you will return to Hashem your G-d” (Devarim 4:29-30). The Torah foresees Beneh Yisrael repenting, but surprisingly, it describes this process twice, and in two different ways. First, it says that Beneh Yisrael will together “seek out” Hashem, using the plural term ובקשתם. But then, in the next verse, we find again that בצר לך – the people will experience pain and distress, prompting them to return: ושבת עד ה' אלוקיך. The only difference is that in this second stage, the Torah uses the singular form (לך...ושבת). How do we explain these two different stages?
To introduce the answer to this question, let us ask a different question. We have just observed Tisha B’Av, when we fasted, sat on the floor, mourned, and focused our attention on the tragedy of our exile. But after Tisha B’Av ends, we suddenly switch gears. The Shabbat after Tisha B’Av is called “Shabbat Nahamu” – roughly translated, “The Shabbat of Consolation,” a named taken from the first words of the haftarah read on this Shabbat (נחמו נחמו עמי). We need to ask, why are we suddenly comforted? What has changed since Tisha B’Av? Why do we now feel consoled and optimistic? Instinctively, we might answer that we are comforted by our hopes for redemption, by the knowledge that G-d has promised to bring us back and rebuild the Bet Ha’mikdash. But isn’t this true on Tisha B’Av, too? Do we discover the promise of redemption only after Tisha B’Av? If we mourn on Tisha B’Av, why don’t we mourn after Tisha B’Av?
One of the answers given is that the Tisha B’Av experience itself gives us consolation and reassurance. On Tisha B’Av, we all assemble and work together to gain inspiration. Anyone who drives around Deal on Tisha B’Av will see hundreds of cars parked near synagogues throughout the day, as hundreds upon hundreds of people gather to hear words of Torah and to be inspired. And countless others listen and study at homes through the internet. Tisha B’Av, perhaps more so than any other day of the year, is a time of coming together. And this is a great source of comfort.
The Midrash teaches – and anybody who has gone through a personal crisis of any sort knows from firsthand experience just how true this is – כל צרה שהוא של יחיד צרה, וכל צרה שאינה של יחיד אינה צרה – “Any crisis faced by an individual is a crisis, and any crisis which is not faced by an individual is not a crisis.” When a person faces a dire problem alone, without the help and encouragement of family and friends, without the benefit of a support system, he feels completely shattered and hopeless. He feels as though his life is crumbling and can never be rebuilt. But when a person does not face his problem alone, but rather receives help, empathy and support, then as difficult and painful as his situation is, the pain is bearable. He does not despair. He does not break down. He is able to have hope and to believe in his future.
This is why we feel consoled after Tisha B’Av. As pained as we should be over the hurban (destruction), we experience this pain altogether, as a community and as a nation. And this experience of attachment, the very knowledge that we are in this together, is a very special and powerful source of comfort.
The Rabbis teach that after the destruction of the first Bet Ha’mikdash, the Jewish People were unified and repented together as a nation. Just seventy years later, they returned from exile and rebuilt the Bet Ha’mikdash. But they gradually lost their unity and their sense of togetherness, resulting in the שנאת חנם (baseless hatred) that eventually led to the current exile. And thus the Torah says that after ובקשתם משם, after we together, as a nation, repent and return, the time will come when בצר לך, when we will be divided, and we will face crises as individuals. Without the support network of a unified nation, we will experience true צרה, and the pain will be unbearable. In reference to this second stage, the singular form is used, indicating that the pain and hardship will be endured as individuals, without the benefit of unity, and this will make the pain so much worse – בצר לך.
An Organization for Everything
As a Rabbi, I often hear from people who feel disillusioned with our community, for a variety of reasons. Some people feel that we are too connected, that our members know too much about each other. Others feel that our community creates pressure, whether it’s the pressure of high financial expectations or of high religious standards. And, of course, there are complaints about the Rabbis, the institutions, the schools, the organizations, and so on.
Very often, these complaints are valid, at least partially. Living in any close-knit community comes with challenges, and no Rabbi or institution is perfect.
Nevertheless, it is so vitally important for us to appreciate what we have. I don’t think there is another community in the world that has the kind of support system that our community provides. We have an organization for every kind of problem. If a family has a special needs child, there is an organization to help them. If somebody is seriously ill, there is an organization to help him and his family. If a family faces financial problems, there is an organization to help them. If a family has somebody struggling with an addiction, there is an organization to help them. If a person is looking for a shidduch, there is an organization to help them. Whatever the problem is, the support system is in place to offer help.
This is not to say that everything is perfect. Nothing in the world is perfect. And there are, unfortunately, people who fall through the cracks. As a Rabbi, I deal with these painful situations all the time. But there are plenty of good people who try, who sincerely care, and who devote their talents to make the best contribution they can to the community. This is something very special that we need to recognize and appreciate. We can feel truly grateful for our community even if there are real problems that need to be addressed. And if we fail to properly appreciate it, then we will not work to sustain it and make it better.
The People Who Pack Our Parachutes
Captain Charlie Plumb was a pilot during the Vietnam War who flew seventy-four successful missions during the conflict. On his seventy-fifth mission, just several days before he was slated to return home, his plane was shot down. He parachuted out of the aircraft and landed on the ground, where he was promptly captured and imprisoned by the Vietnamese. He spent some five years in prison until he was finally released. Since then, he has been giving motivational lectures drawing upon his experiences as a prisoner of war and relating them to the everyday challenges and problems that people face.
Once, during a trip to Kansas City, he was eating in a restaurant, alone, and noticed that somebody was looking at him. That person eventually approached him and said, “You’re Captain Plumb, right?”
The Captain replied in the affirmative.
The man then proceeded to tell him several details about his experiences as a pilot in Vietnam, and the Captain asked, “How do you know all that?”
“Because,” the man explained, “I was the guy who packed your parachute.”
Reflecting on this encounter, Captain Plumb wrote that he had probably seen this fellow countless times over the course of his time in Vietnam. He had likely walked by him several times a day as he diligently packed the pilots’ parachutes, but he had never thought to even say hello or give any type of greeting, let alone thank him for his work. And yet, this man packed the parachute that saved his life.
Captain Plumb concluded by challenging all of us to ask ourselves, “Who are the people in our lives who pack our parachutes? Who are the people in our lives who help us and provide us with the things we need and the things that help us, but whom we fail to appreciate?”
This beautiful lesson applies to many areas of our lives, one of which is our community. There are so many wonderful people in the community who “pack our parachutes,” who give of themselves selflessly in order to ensure we have the things we need as a community – all our institutions, organizations, and support systems that exist. It is certainly legitimate to offer respectful, constructive criticism when necessary in order to help improve our community, but we also need to appreciate all that is being done.
The next time we walk by a synagogue, a yeshiva, a school, or any other community institution, or the next time we attend a Torah class or communal function, let us take a moment to appreciate – and to point out to our children – all the individuals who selflessly donated or donate time, money and energy to make all this happen. There are many people packing are parachutes – let’s never forget to appreciate their hard work and dedication, and let’s each commit ourselves to make our individual contributions so that our community will continue to grow, prosper and reach ever greater heights.