I’ve been writing about the Jewish Tragedy of forgetfulness. Spiritual amnesia not only invites tragedy, it also opens up the floodgates of recurring suffering.
As an example I cited the Holocaust, the unspeakable catastrophe of our time. But it is not only the Holocaust that demonstrates this refusal to face reality. The challenge confronts us in every generation, and our response has been consistently the same – blindness; deafness; slumber. It is always easier to sleep than to deal with the evil around us. We wake up too late, when we hear the sirens.
The Rambam (Maimonides) teaches that when tragedy occurs we have a responsibility to sound the shofar, and that not to do so is an act of cruelty.
Some readers surely protest, “Cruelty? Perhaps ignorance, stupidity, or apathy – but cruelty? Isn’t that somewhat farfetched?”
The reason Rambam uses that expression should be obvious. Neglecting to awaken someone whose house is on fire or to help him escape is cruelty. Our world is on fire and we slumber. No one is blowing the shofar. This is the ultimate cruelty – and a sure formula for disaster.
Not fourteen years ago we experienced 9/11 here in New York City – America’s magnificent metropolis, the country’s bastion of wealth, influence, and power. The twin towers went up in flames and then collapsed when Islamist Jihadists flew planes into those majestic buildings. The city and the country – indeed, the entire world – stood in shock.
In the aftermath of that horror people resolved to re-examine their lives, to reassess their priorities, to do the things they had put off and packed away in their closets for future use.
So many of our citizens rose to the occasion and made commitments that had real meaning and purpose – to give to others, to become kinder and gentler. New Yorkers who in the past had been all business became more courteous and generous of spirit.
I remember traveling to a speaking engagement shortly after 9/11. The atmosphere at Kennedy Airport was chilling. No bustling. No hustling. No long lines to get to the gate. I missed the noise – the crowd – the people. There were no lines at security. As a matter of fact, there were no lines anywhere.
As I boarded the plane I was shocked at all the empty seats. Most noticeable, perhaps, was the welcoming attitude of the relatively few people I did encounter in the airport and on the plane.
We looked at one another and tried to smile. We exchanged some thoughts and good wishes. The flight attendant hovered over us and when we deplaned we made a point of thanking the captain and the kind stewardess who had been so attentive throughout the flight.
Once again I was struck by the silence in the airport. I never thought I would miss the tumult – the shoving and pushing. Although I was far away from New York City, the ripple effect of the tragedy could be felt. Here too people were going out of their way to be more considerate.
But this new temperament, this new outlook, did not last very long. Soon enough it was back to business as usual. The grouchy faces, the cold eyes, the feeling of entitlement – all were once again dominant.
Today, except for those whose loved ones perished in the attacks, 9/11 is barely a memory. New York City has rebuilt and recovered, but the promises and resolutions so any of us made that day are long forgotten.
If any people should learn from their past it is we Jews. Our sacred books are replete with stories of our Patriarchs and Matriarchs. Our sages teach that “whatever happened to our forefathers are signs for us, their children.”
Everything is replay. We must learn from our past but somehow it seems we always fall into a deep slumber and neither see nor hear. While other nations may be able to survive if they sleep, we cannot. We are few in numbers. Every neshama is precious and irreplaceable.
Moreover, at Sinai we were charged with an awesome responsibility – a divine purpose to live up to our calling. To neglect that is to guarantee disaster. We dare not sleep. There are too many who scheme to annihilate us.
I’ve written of the stunning miracles during the Six-Day War. To be sure, every battle fought by Israel has been laden with miracles. The very survival of our people in that tiny land surrounded by nations determined to destroy us is miraculous.
But the miracles of the Six-Day War were so clear, so obvious, that even a blind person could see them and a deaf person could hear them. And for a moment we all did. We saw. We heard. Our hearts and souls soared. The pintele Yid buried deep in our souls became a bright flame that illuminated our lives. But, alas, we allowed the flame to die.
Today we are once again confronted by roaring wolves who threaten to devour us. What are we to do?
Have we forgotten that after we went back to sleep after witnessing the miracles of the Six-Day War, we experienced the painful Yom Kippur War that saw so many casualties and caused so much suffering?
Time and again I have pointed out that there are no coincidences in our history. The Six-Day War lasted six days because the Seventh Day was ready to come; the day that is “Kulo Shabbos” – all Shabbos, the day of Mashiach.
But we didn’t hear – and if we heard we disregarded – Hashem’s loving call to us and so the Yom Kippur War befell us. And Yom Kipper is Yom HaDin, the Day of Judgment.
So what are we to do? Will Washington, Moscow, the European Union, or the United Nations help us in out time of need? Are they going to intercede on our behalf? Our answer can be found in King David’s Psalm 81. “If only My people would heed Me. If Israel would walk in My ways. In an instant I would subdue their foes and against all their tormentors turn My Hand.”
It sounds so simple. Why then is it so hard? Instead of running to this country or that country, to this head of state or that head of state, to this politician or that politician, let us run to our Father, the Master of the Universe – our One and Only G-d.
Think about it. We are the nation that has entrée into the Palace. We can speak to the King of kings. And we have pull. He is our Father. And yet we run around speaking to His servants and never enter the Chambers of the Palace.
This is our tragedy, and it is a tragedy of colossal proportions.