Bear With Me

It was a Sunday, the evening of February 2nd, 2020. Super Bowl 54. And if my COVID math is correct, that was approximately 11 years and 3 months ago. Honestly, I couldn't tell you offhand who won. Not because February feels like a lucid dream, but rather something else more memorable occurred that evening. I received a call from our very own Rabbi Lyon. Offering me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To be the new assistant rabbi at Beth Israel in Houston. 

However, the deal was, I would work not for money, but a lifetime supply of paper goods and cleaning products. Which, according to COVID currency, is approximately 32.8 million dollars. And now that I think about it, I may have gotten the better end of that deal…  

My apologies ahead of time for the light-hearted humor. Usually, I might hear the sound of laughs. But, quite literally, tonight, just crickets. All because the person behind the screen watching, You, aren't physically here with me. Yes, You!. My congregant. You, my trusted committee members, and lay-leaders. You, my "go-to" for all things Tex-Mex. You, my impromptu docent for all things Beth Israel. You, my ally, and my partner. Sadly, You aren't here to sing along with Cantor Trompeter. But to be fair, I'm not even allowed to sing along with Cantor Trompeter. That’s probably for the best, regardless of the pandemic.

And the reason I speak so directly to You this evening is because when I got that call from Rabbi Lyon, You were my first thought. When I imagined what it might be like to be a rabbi and share this bima, I envisioned the Shabbat evenings I would spend You. We would laugh. We would hug. Embrace. Welcome one another. I would listen as you recounted fond memories of bar mitzvah's, weddings, and blessings you received in this very sanctuary. Standing in this very spot. 

On that fateful Sunday, I was so excited to meet You. Of getting to really know You. But sadly, You aren't here. You're probably on your couch. Or maybe you're in the living room with your family. You're cooking. Cleaning. Teaching. Working. Exercising. Relaxing. You're half tuning in, maybe half jugging the array of new responsibilities placed on your life. Either way, the world is a different place now. Alone but apart. The new normal. In this together. Uncertain times. And if I never again hear the word "unprecedented" for the rest of my life, I would manage just fine. 

But all of this leaves me with the same questions that I've been asking myself these past few months prior to my arrival. How can I possibly be a rabbi for a congregation I've never met? In-person. How can I be a community leader for a community I've never shaken hands with. Broken bread with. Prayed with. Smiled with. If you don't know me, nor I You, what does this look like? After all, I'm used to deafening silence after telling jokes, but this seems to be a whole new level of discomforting quiet. 

And the answer, the one that I have, is not an easy one. Nor is it a real answer at all. Forgive me. It's not a panacea, nor is it a cure. But it's something the Jewish people have been known to do. And that is, endure. We embrace the reality of our situation. And apply a salubrious dosage of patience. I know what you're thinking, "Rabbi, this is a terrible answer." And you might be right. In fact, I know true and well this is simply an existential bandaid for a much bigger wound. But our Jewish history and our traditions are reminiscent of the current moment we find ourselves in. “What happens once in a lifetime, happens all the time.” History is one giant paradoxical loop of both uncertainty and redundancy. And the only light at the end of the tunnel is one we are not privy to see. Just yet. Which is why, the dreaded measure and application of patience, is simply what we have. But there is more to this story. 

Author Wendy Kalamn explains that “The Hebrew word for tolerance is sovlanut, סוֹבְלָנוּת, and it is one letter removed from the Hebrew word for patience, savlanut, סַבְלָנוּת. The relationship makes sense, to have tolerance is to have patience.” However the rabbit hole of patience goes even deeper. The hebrew word for suffering, “sevel, סֵבֶל, has yet another meaning, and that is to carry something very heavy, so heavy it causes anguish...” [1]

Because in actuality, “Patience is not just about waiting, it’s about bearing,” Mussar teacher, Alan Moranis writes. “Patience means enduring...and the experience may even bring us elements of suffering.” 

So tonight, instead of schmoozing post services and making plans to get together, I ask from you something else entirely. I ask that you have patience. Patience to endure this moment - with me. That you literally "bear with me." Though we so desperately cleave to one another as Jews. You and I. Our souls, intrinsically meant to be sewn to one another. So much so that the pain of the space that separates us feels enormous. But this is not the end. It's just the beginning. 

To quote Willie Nelson, "Nobody said it was going to be easy. It's only as hard as it seems. But lately it's harder than usual." All of this is a challenge. For everyone. But I know we have been through worse together. And we have survived. And when this is all said and done, You and I will eat copious, copious amounts of food. Together. United. Under one roof. But until that day, let's Zoom. Let's message. By email, text, carrier pigeon, morris code, or Goodyear blimps. Let's find a way to connect. And the promise I make to you this evening is that if you shine the bat signal for connection, I will be there. Because, Beth Israel, You and I, We, well we have lots and lots to catch up on.