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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