Running away from home, whether to join the circus or to find more understanding parents, is an age-old theme. I don’t suppose the first Hebrew, Abraham, could be considered a runaway, though it’s quite likely that his departure at the age of 75 wasn’t just because he wanted a better a better view of the mountains. The Torah doesn’t specify the reason behind his leaving Haran, his homeland, other than his deep desire to obey God’s command, lech l’cha, “go forth.” The Rabbis of old, however, concluded that Abraham was escaping religious persecution.
On the other hand, Moses, the giver of the Torah, at least at one point in his life certainly was a fugitive. You might recall the circumstances of his escape, after killing a cruel Egyptian taskmaster who was mercilessly beating a Hebrew slave.
And of course, there’s Jacob, Abraham’s grandson, who leaves the shelter of his parents’ tents at a tender and innocent age, in an effort to escape the murderous rage of his twin brother, Esau.
While Abraham took all of his possession with him, Izzy, my friends’ 6-year old son, took only one suitcase—but he sure packed a lot into it. There were shirts, shorts, socks, slippers, a deck of cards, a Game Boy, a pillow, and a sleeping bag.
What would we take with us on our fantasy escape? What did so many of our ancestors take with them as they left one country after another in search of safe harbor from persecution, and the promise of religious freedom?
Of course, there were the essential necessities—some changes of clothes; food for the road and probably a few usable pots and pans. There would also be some objects of Jewish ritual: a prayer shawl; a siddur—the book of Jewish prayers; candlesticks passed down through the generations; a set of tefillin—phylacteries, those small leather boxes containing the sh’ma and some other paragraphs from the Torah which men traditionally bind around their heads and forearms as they prepare for morning prayers.
There would be other things, too, intangible perhaps, but no less essential. One thing I’m pretty sure that our Biblical ancestor Jacob took with him was the smell of home cooking: The fragrance of the lentil soup that he and his mother were fond of; the odor of an animal roasting over an open flame that Esau and Isaac preferred.
Along all their journeys, our people, too, always took with them their music; their memories and traditions; the ways and customs with which they celebrated, mourned and prayed; perhaps some earth from the Holy Land of Israel. Wherever they went, these were the possessions they kept closest to their hearts.
How far we get in our wanderings varies. As children, we rarely get past the front door, or perhaps half a block. But as adults, our journeys nowadays can take us several times around the world. And though more and more of what we had originally packed to take with us gets left behind in different places and stations, some things always remain with us, carefully guarded.
Best of all that little 6-year-old Izzy took with him was his expectation that his mother would take him to wherever it was that he was running away to. Smart kid! At six, he already knew what most of us only realize after many years of wandering and relocating: That our mother always does accompany us along our journeys. If not in person, then definitely in spirit.
For the Jewish People, our tradition and our faith are the guardian parent that we always find waiting for us. Everywhere we go, at every stop, at every place that we call home, there they are too, ready to provide nourishment and sustenance for our journey.
Life takes us to unexpected places. Even if we return to the place where we began, we find that nothing remains the same. Life around us changes. Certainly we change as we grow and age. It’s a hard fact to accept. Countless times I have heard congregants complaining: “Rabbi, I don’t come to services all that often; in fact, I only come for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. But when I do, I want to hear the same melodies and prayers that I remember from my childhood.” It is an inescapable truth, however, that change is inevitable. New generations come and go, bringing with them new melodies and rhythms. Traditional interpretations of ancient texts change and evolve with time, reflecting the deeper understanding of our minds and hearts and the broader knowledge of the workings of the universe around us. Every day we find ourselves on the cusp of a new dawn and a new era.
But there’s also much that doesn’t change. For example, the instant bond that immediately forms when we meet fellow Jews. Whether the person sitting next to us is someone we have known long or a new friend that we’ve just met, there’s a connection, an understanding that links us. Within minutes, a group of virtual strangers turns into a community. It can happen in a corner of an airport, or at a Jewish deli in midtown. And of course it exists right here, in the pews where we are sitting right now. The synagogue, after all, is the place where our people have always gathered, not only to pray and study, but also to find someone akin to us that we can relate to, without having to go into intricate explanations or excuses.
The synagogue is a place of shelter and safety from dark clouds and storms that may assail us outside.
It’s a place where memories, like sparks, can come alive, to give us light, to enrich the moment and give us hope for the future.
Here we can celebrate and share with our loved ones the most joyous events in our life. Here we can let our sorrows enfold us, certain that we are surrounded by a caring community ready to listen to us, provide a meal in our time of need, or simply a shoulder to cry on. Here we can sing “Shehecheyanu” to thank God for sustaining life within us through the seasons; or “Mi Sheberach” to express our worry and concern for someone who might be sick or in pain. Here, too, we can say Kaddish as we remember and mourn loved ones, who are no longer with us.
At the synagogue is where we find a school where our children might learn about the holidays and sacred seasons that we observe. Where the ancient language of our people can be taught and learned, along with texts that have always provided us with inspiration and support. Tradition means “passing on, transmitting a message.” Here, in the deepest and most personal way, we become a vital link in this historic golden chain, nurtured by, and keeping alive by our very presence, traditions and customs that go back decades and sometimes even centuries.
It is here that we, adults, can go on learning, to begin from scratch if we never had a chance, or to resume where we might have left off so long ago, once our bar or bat mitzvah was finally behind us. Going forward beyond the stories of miracles and wonders we heard as children, now as grownups, we can quench our thirst for knowledge and deeper understanding. It is here, at the synagogue, where we can finally ask the most difficult questions of all, inquiring, like our Biblical mother Rebecca, about the meaning of existence and suffering, even about God’s presence in our lives.
It is in the synagogue that we can find the lifeline that has sustained our people despite centuries of wandering and persecution. We can finally understand what it means to play a role in our history, and to fall in step with our ancestors in their timeless journey into sacred time and sacred space.
The synagogue is the parent that never leaves us, that goes with us wherever we go, holding our hand, showing us the way, always nurturing, always caring, always loving, no matter what. The door is always open, a candle in the window is always lit for our return.
Wherever the Hebrew patriarch Abraham wandered, walking the length and width of the Promised Land, he built altars to God, places to offer prayer and sacrifice. Moses, after his return to his people, taught us how to build sanctuaries, homes for the Torah and resting places for our weary feet.
Our then-6-year-old friend, Izzy, didn’t get very far in his attempt to run away from home those few years ago. A guiding hand showed him right back up to his room, to serve out the remainder of his well-deserved time-out. The next day, Izzy’s mom told her son how much she would have missed him had he actually run away. “Don’t worry, Mom,” Izzy replied. “I would have come back to visit you every week. Once a week.”
Just like Izzy, we come home too. Whether it is once a week, on Shabbat, or once a year; at this season, we return. We gather here, at this home, to reconnect with our faith, to replenish our hearts with the sustenance that our traditions give us. We come to sing and pray, to share our stories and relive precious memories. We know that we’ll be welcomed here, and that everything will be exactly where we left it, just as we remembered. All we have to do is open the door, come in, make ourselves right at home.
It is our home, after all.
May our homecoming on this Rosh Hashanah bring us joy and love. May it bless us with peace, happiness, joy and health.
L’shanah tovah tikatevu—may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for a good, sweet New Year.
© 2019 by Boaz D. Heilman
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