October 12, 2012

HOLY DAYS PASS, BITTERSWEET TEARS LINGER

HOLY DAYS PASS, BITTERSWEET TEARS LINGER

Open for me the gates of righteousness;

I will enter and give thanks to the Lord.

This is the gate of the Lord,

Through which the righteous may enter.  (Psalm 118)


By nature, I’m not a crier.  That doesn’t mean that I am bereft of deep emotions, or at least I do not think so.  It’s just that my tears, of joy or of sadness, do not flow forth with ease.

Then why did I well up with tears when we chanted those verses in synagogue on the recent festival of Sukkot (Tabernacles)?  As meaningful as the Psalm is, I realize that it was the plaintive melody, even more than the words that tugged at my heart so compellingly.  The particular melody that Rabbi Julie sang, you see, is invested with bittersweet sentiments and memories that transport me back nearly a half-century to San Francisco, the Summer of Love, 1967, and a commune at the edge of Haight-Ashbury called The House of Love and Prayer.

That summer, home from Yeshiva, I was an on-and-off resident of The House of Love and Prayer.  In fact, they ordained me “Assistant Resident Messianic Prophet in Training.”  (For a yuk, check out the abbreviation!) 

The resident guru of the House was one Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach.  At that time there were other gurus in the world of New Age Judaism, but none had the renown of Sholmo.  He composed and sang beautifully exuberant and doleful melodies in hip coffee houses, folk festivals, and the like.  And he regaled his devotees and hangers-on with wonder-tales and parables from the mouths of saintly Chasidic Masters.  (For more, Google him or listen to his melodies on You Tube.)

The first time I heard Shlomo sing his melody for Psalm 118 was on a Saturday night after we bid the Sabbath farewell.  Fifty-or-so of us crowded into the living room of the House, sitting on the floor, singing, clapping, swaying, holding on to each other shoulder-to-shoulder, embracing Shlomo’s songs and stories.

I remember it well.  I recall most being surrounded by a feeling of all-wellness, wrapped in peace, welling up with love.  Vietnam, draft cards, and political intrigue would have to wait.  If only we could envelop the world in such a joyous, healing sensation.  For me, it was a coming of age, truly a Summer of Love.  And today, it is the taproot from which my bittersweet tears flow whenever we chant those holy words to Shlomo’s mystical melody.  I am back in San Francisco, the House, 1967, sweet and innocent times, a wisp of memory, a wistfulness born of yearning.

I cried once more on the holy days.  How ironic to be overwhelmed with tears on the very last day of the season, the day dedicated to rejoicing with the Torah.  I spent the holiday in Atlanta with my kids and grandchildren, worshiping at an orthodox synagogue overflowing with young families.  Men and women, most of them half my age, circled the Torah scrolls, dancing and whirling while they raised their voices in Hebrew songs that celebrated God and His Word.

As the dancing subsided, the little children, at least a hundred of them, crowded the pulpit to receive their special blessing, as is the custom.  They all huddled under a huge prayer shawl and we joyfully pronounced, “May the angel who redeemed me from all evil now bless these children!”  As I watched my grown children dancing and singing, and my grandchildren being led to the pulpit by their parents for their blessing, I could no longer restrain my tears.

Almost half a century has passed since the summer of Shlomo and the House.  What has happened to me, to us, during the intervening years is almost too much to fathom – birth and death, youth and old age, joy and regret, achievement and failure.  And so we shed a tear for what once was and another for the promise of what may yet be.  We take the bitter with the sweet, wonder how life has flown by, yearn for bygone days, marvel at our children having grown to adulthood, as their own children now huddle under the magical prayer shawl to receive their blessing.

How could one not look longingly back and hopefully forward without welling up with tears of the bitter and the sweet?

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