This is the story I am telling at Shabbat services tonight at Temple Sinai in Cranston, Rhode Island. This week's Torah portion (Terumah) includes the instructions for the Parochet, the curtain that separates the Holy of Holies from the rest of the Tabernacle (Exodus 26:31-34).

Psalm 65 begins with these words, L’cha dumiyah t’hilah Elohim b’Tzion. The verse can be translated as, ‘To You, God in Zion, silence is prayer.’ What can this mean? How can we praise God with mere silence? Here is a story that might explain.

There was once a man who was a great singer of popular songs who longed to be a cantor. Whenever he sang in the music hall or in a tavern, he was praised for the beautiful tone of his voice and for his perfect control of each note. However, whenever he tried to lead a service in the synagogue, the congregants would be unmoved. Some of them fell asleep. When he concluded the service, people would quickly gather their things to leave, so as not to have to answer his persistent questions, "Did you like it? Did I sing the prayers well today?" They didn’t want to talk to him about it because the service left them feeling cold and unfulfilled.

The singer was so disappointed in his inability to sing the prayer in the synagogue that he went to the Besht, the Baal Shem Tov, the great spiritual leader of the hassidim. He implored the Besht, “Please, teach me to be a cantor who will move the congregation with the sound of my voice leading the prayers.” The Besht told him, “Before you open your mouth to sing, you must hold these thoughts in your heart: You must consider that the soul of every person in the congregation is in your hands. Every note you sing will either cause their hearts to cleave to God and to commit themselves to doing God’s will, or it will cut them off from God completely. You must consider that your voice will become like the parochet, the screen that was placed in the ancient Temple in front of the Holy of Holies. It is within your power to open the screen and to bring the people into the closest possible connection to the Holy One of Blessing, or to forever be a barrier that keeps them separated from the Source of Life.”

The singer solemnly accepted the instructions of the Besht. He prepared for his next appearance in the synagogue by spending an entire week in constant thought and meditation over the teaching that the Besht had given him. He actually visualized in his mind the souls of all the congregants sitting on the notes that came out of his mouth. He imagined that his voice was the holy parochet of the Temple that guarded the doorway between this world and God’s presence. 

On the day of the service he was assigned to lead, the singer walked into the synagogue with his head swimming with these thoughts. As he climbed the steps of the bimah, he imagined how his singing could bring the souls of the congregation closer to God. He opened his prayerbook and prepared to chant the opening words of the service, “Mah tovu ohalecha Ya’akov,” “How good are your tents, O Jacobs.” He opened his mouth…and nothing came out. He swallowed some water to clear his throat and tried again… nothing. Not a sound, not a note would come out him. This man, who could sing a drinking song like an angel, was utterly incapable of singing a prayer in the synagogue with meaning or spirit. 

Realizing his failure, he broke down in tears on the bimah. Frantically, he turned the pages of the prayerbook, hoping that he could find one prayer that he could squeeze out of his throat. Page after page gave him nothing to sing. He could not even begin a single prayer. There was only silent sobbing heard that day from the bimah as the singer imagined his dream to be shattered, his yearning unfulfilled. 

The congregation sat in astonishment as they watched the singer. None could bring him or herself to speak. They did not want to deepen the singer’s embarrassment by taking his place or by telling him to let someone else lead the prayers. For half an hour, they watched the singer turn the pages and cry softly to himself. When he finally began to come down the steps from the bimah, they gathered their things and prepared to leave, still in deep confusion.

As the singer came down the last step, he saw that the Besht was there waiting for him. The singer’s mortification grew even deeper when he saw the great man. He not only had failed himself and the congregation, he thought, he had failed the Besht. What would the Besht say? Would he tell him that he had not followed his instructions correctly? He shuddered, as his mind raced with the disgrace that would follow as soon as the Besht opened his mouth and began to rebuke him.

But the Besht said nothing. Instead, he opened his arms and wrapped them around the singer. The Besht kissed the singer on both cheeks and gazed into the singer’s eyes with a warm smile on his lips. The singer saw that there was a tear on the Besht’s face, a tear of joy.

From that day on, the man was no longer called a “singer.” He became known – not only as a chazan, a cantor – but as “The Chazan of the Besht.” Every year on Yom Kippur – at the request of the Besht – he came before the congregation for the Kol Nidre prayer, the prayer in which the congregation begins its search for forgiveness from God. On that occasion, he would stand on the bimah, open the Yom Kippur prayerbook to the first page, look out at the congregation, imagine the responsibility of helping them to return to God, and he would cry in silence.


Other Posts on This Topic:
In Praise of Silence
Meditation

"The cherubs will stretch forth their wings on high, shielding the cover with their wings, and their faces looking at one another…"
–Exodus 25:20

"Jews must have two qualities. They must 'stretch forth their wings on high,' always striving upward toward higher levels, and they must have 'their faces looking at one another,' always seeing the distress of others and willing to help."
–Sadeh Margalit, quoted in Itturei Torah, 3:215

This has been a painful week, and a hopeful one. In Copenhagen this week, a gunman killed an innocent man at a "free speech" event that featured a cartoonist who had previously drawn a picture of the Muslim prophet Muhammed. He then went to a synagogue and killed another innocent man, a volunteer who stood guard to protect the Jewish community there.

In my own community of Rhode Island this week, someone vandalized a Muslim school by spray painting insults on the walls of the building. The primary victims in this case were the innocent children who attend a school that has been noted for its community spirit and kindness.

The spray paint on the facade of the Islamic School of Rhode Island already has been washed away, but the fear in the hearts of the school's children will stay within them for as long as they breathe. The life of Dan Uzan, the 37-year-old volunteer murdered in Copenhagen, is gone forever. The tears and heartache of his family and community also are etched on their souls for lifetimes. 

These crimes were the product of hatred, a refusal to see another human being as anything but an enemy. In such eyes, even a child appears to be worthy of any pain that can be inflicted upon him or her. But this is not the Jewish way of seeing human beings.

At the center of the holiest place in the world, we learn in the book of Exodus, there is a throne upon which rests the Presence of the Blessed Holy One. Judaism does not countenance anything like a graven image to represent God, so what did the ancients Hebrews put in the place of the throne? In the Holy of Holies, they put a golden box containing words of Torah that taught them all human beings are created in the image of God. 

On top of the box, they placed two golden cherubs with their wings outstretched and their faces looking at one another. This teaches us that we should always lift ourselves beyond the limitations we experience in life. It teaches us that we should always be willing to look into the face of others and see their humanity.

In response to the attack on the synagogue in Copenhagen, Muslims in the Norwegian city of Oslo this week are surrounding their community's synagogue on Shabbat in a gesture of protection. They are lifting themselves up from their fears and looking into the faces of Jews and seeing their own Norwegian brothers and sisters. Here in Rhode Island, a broad coalition of faith leaders from the Christian and Jewish communities came together the day after the vandalism of the Muslim school to vow their support and symbolic protection. 

I know that there are people in the Muslim community and in the Jewish community who fear that  supporting members of another faith will put them at risk. Those are reasonable fears. There are people who will question whether it is their role to support members of a different faith that has not always been so friendly to them. That is also reasonable. The higher truth, though, is that it is exactly at moments like this that we should spread out our wings and strive to be our best. We are at our best, as human beings, and as Jews, when we are willing to look into the face of another and to recognize the image of God.

I have spent the past three days as part of a group of ten clergy men and women from different faiths and denominations in a training on leading congregations in transition. It has been a fascinating and eye-opening experience. It has been a time to reconsider some of the choices I have made in the past and to think about hopes for the future.

Much of the conversation over these three days centered on the role of clergy in helping congregations to negotiate the emotional and spiritual experience of big transitions. Such transitions, we learned, always have three parts: the end of the congregation's old identity, an "in between" phase of uncertainty in which the congregation rediscovers itself, and a beginning in which the new identity is born. (This model is highly influenced by the work of the late William Bridges). Congregational transitions begin with an ending and end with a beginning.

You might be tempted to think that the trick is to minimize the time spent in the uncomfortable "in between" phase (which Bridges calls "the Neutral Zone"). Not so. That is the time of possibility and discovery. Difficult, sometimes painful, things happen in the "in between," but it also is the place of inquiry, creativity, discovery and renewal. It is to be cherished, not rushed through.

And here is another important truth about congregations in transition: Change is not just handed down to the congregation by its leaders. Good leaders spend a lot of time listening to people,  finding out what they want, and responding to the needs of the community. Congregational leaders who enter headlong into changes that serve only to satisfy their interests, or their pet theories, do not last long. Transition is directed by the needs of the community.

I've been thinking all week about how the insights from the training reflect on this week's Torah portion, Terumah. The portion describes the building of the Mishkan, or Tabernacle — the portable Temple that the Israelites carried with them through the wilderness as a dwelling place for God's presence. The story also suggests an ending, a middle and a beginning.

In order for the Mishkan to be built, it was necessary for the Israelites to bring donations of wood, precious metals, gems, animal skins, and yarns for its construction. Each family had to part with something that was valuable to them. They had to begin with an ending. 

Then the Israelites entered a phase in which they had neither their precious objects nor a special place to experience God's presence. Before the Mishkan could be completed, the Israelites had to experience the sin of the Golden Calf and the shattering of the tablets of the Ten Commandments. It also was in this uncomfortable time that they discovered their own generosity, artistry and the new way they would organize their community. In the end, with the Mishkan completed, the Israelites saw the cloud of God's presence descend upon them and enter into them. A new beginning.

This is a process that is repeated in congregations day after day. We always are in the midst of putting together the elements of the house that will be the special gathering place of the community in God's presence. We always are gathering the resources we need to build and maintain the synagogue (or temple, church, mosque, gurdwara, etc.). We always are finding ways to transform our spiritual home to meet the needs of our times. We always are entering a new age together as a sacred community.

It is a truism that congregations always are transforming themselves and that we always are adapting to what is new. The same can be said for just about anything in life. Yet, it is helpful to be mindful of the cycle. It is too easy for the spiritual life of our communities to become stale and lose meaning when we are inattentive to the need for purposeful, intentional transitions. We need to be prepared for the grief of loss that comes with endings, for the challenges and opportunities of crossing the wilderness during the time "in between," and for celebrating new beginnings when our hopes are fulfilled.

This is going to be the story of my life in the coming year. I will be working to guide two different congregations through times of transition — the congregation I soon will be leaving and the congregation that I soon will be entering. My life — and the lives of the communities I serve — will be all about endings that are followed by beginnings. I hope to share more about the transition with you over the coming months.

May all of the transitions in your life be fulfilling as you say goodbye, cross the wilderness, and say hello.


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Vayechi: Cloverleaf
Havdalah

Well, of course, there are angels in Judaism. Angels are directly mentioned in several important stories in the Hebrew Bible. Jacob dreamed about angels ascending and descending a ladder between heaven and earth (Genesis 28:12)? The prophet, Isaiah, had a vision of angels surrounding God and shouting, "Holy! Holy! Holy!" (Kadosh! Kadosh! Kadosh!) back and forth (Isaiah 6:1-5).  There are many other examples.

In this week's Torah portion (Terumah) there is a description of the image of angels that decorated the Ark of the Covenant in which the stones of the Ten Commandments were stored in the Tabernacle. They are described in elaborate, if inscrutable, detail:

The two angels on top of the Ark appear to have great importance in this text. They were the protectors of the holiest object, kept in the holiest place, of all Israel. They formed the throne upon which God's presence appeared to command the Israelites. This raises difficult questions about the possibility of idolatry right in the Holy of Holies. How do we reconcile the cherubim with the clear prohibition in the Torah against worshipping other divine beings and against worshipping images sculpted by human hands?

Maimonides, the great Jewish medieval philosopher, argued that the prohibition agains idolatry is only against images that have been devised by human beings. Since the cherubim on top of the Ark were commanded by God, they are not forbidden (Guide to the Perplexed, book 3, chapter 45). That argument may seem circular, but it makes some spiritual sense. 

The reason for prohibiting idolatry is to prevent human beings from thinking of themselves as gods. As soon as we begin revering the things we have made for ourselves—our wealth, power, or status, for example—we have committed a form of idolatry. The cherubim, in contrast, reminded the ancient Israelites that the only images permissible in the Tabernacle were those specifically commanded by God.

Another rabbinic view states that the cherubim on the Ark were a concession to a human need. God recognized the we need something concrete to behold with reverence. The cherubim fill that need, but with the understanding that the true place of holiness is in the emptiness between their wings. God does not reside just in objects—God is in the spaces between.

We have not outgrown our need for something material to focus our reverence. Despite our prayers that declare, "All the earth is filled with God's glory" (Isaiah 6:3), we still build houses of worship and imagine that God is, somehow, more present there than in the ordinary places of our lives. We still regard the ark that holds our Torah scrolls as a sacred place, like the Ark of the Covenant in the Tabernacle of the desert. We do need to have sacred spaces, but they also should serve to remind us that sacred space surrounds us everywhere we go.

So, yes, Jews do believe in angels. However, as the two angels on the Ark of the Covenant remind us, we do not believe in them as divine beings separate from God. Rather, they are symbolic reminders of God around us all the time. They are a physical representation of a Presence that we, otherwise, could not differentiate from reality itself.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Angels
Vayishlach: The Closest We Can Get to the Face of God