Commemorating 9/11
Rabbi Suzy Stone
Kol Nidre Sermon 5782
Fall 2021
I remember exactly where I was 20 years ago when the twin towers fell.
As a senior at Brandeis in Boston, I was finishing up a homework assignment for my 9am class, and I had the TV on in the background when I saw a plane crash into the WTC. My brother was living in NYC at the time, but luckily he was on business in San Francisco on that fateful day.
As we now know, four planes were hijacked on 9/11, killing almost 3,000 people in less than 90 minutes. Quite frankly, the magnitude of this attack on U.S. soil was incomprehensible.
Innocence lost, I was afraid that if I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. Therefore, six days later, on Erev Rosh Hashanah, 2001, I hopped into a car with a few of my friends and we drove to NYC to see if we could help in any way possible.
As we walked downtown, you could hear a pin drop as the buildings were covered in white ash. Scattered pieces of paper and debris were still flying above us like wayward birds lost at sea. Every available chain-link fence was covered with ‘missing persons’ signs. Perhaps, worst of all, the smell of burning rubber, and flesh, marked the holiest day of the Jewish New Year twenty years ago.
As we walked back uptown, we happened upon a retired army specialist who had driven three days straight to set up a temporary food distribution site. For the next 48 hours, we packed food and walked the streets handing out water to as many first responders as we could.
That’s when I saw it.
While eating lunch, this firefighter had taken off his turnout coat, and on his left forearm, there were numbers written in black ink.
Quickly I realized that all of the firefighters had the same thing-- it was their social security number in case they got trapped under the rubble so they could be identified if they too got trapped under the rubble. Immediately, my mind flashed back to images of the Holocaust, and the black tattoos that represent our people’s darkest hour. For me, this is when 9/11 became real.
A few days later, while attending Yom Kippur services, I will never forget the story Rabbi David Thomas told 20 years ago to this day from the Babylonian Talmud (Eruvin 53b).
This is the story of Joshuah Ben Hananyah, who lived 2,000 years ago in the land of Israel. While walking towards the city, he encountered a fork in the road, with a young child sitting at the intersection. So, the rabbi asks:
Which way should I go to get to the city?
The boy says:
זוֹ קְצָרָה וַאֲרוּכָּה, וְזוֹ אֲרוּכָּה וּקְ- צָרָה
This is the short-long road, and this is the long-short road.
as soon as the Rabbi hears that he can take the "short" road, he heads in that direction. However, when he approaches the city, the Rabbi realizes that it is surrounded by gardens and orchards with thorns-- basically -- an insurmountable wall.
So he retraces his steps and stumbles once again upon the boy and asks, somewhat angrily: "Didn’t you tell me that this was the short road?"
The responds, "Yes, but I also said it was the short-LONG road."
Rabbi Joshua smiles in his defeat and says:
אַשְׁרֵיכֶם יִשְׂרָאֵל שֶׁכּוּלְּכֶם חֲכָמִים גְּדוֹלִים אַתֶּם, מִגְּדוֹלְכֶם וְעַד קְטַנְּכֶם
"The House of Israel rejoices: For you are all exceedingly wise, from old to young."
Whether after 9/11, or in the midst of Covid, we are constantly tempted by shortcuts.
When we are in pain, it is natural to find the quickest escape hatch from our suffering.
We seek pithy answers to complex problems such as terrorism and war, the pandemic or systemic racism, climate change or the future of our democracy.
But there is a common saying in the field of modern psychology: “We can’t heal what we don’t feel.”
But feeling, truly feeling all the emotions that this pandemic has uprooted is really difficult because unlike the smoldering fire and ashes of 9/11, so much of the suffering and death of Covid is hidden away in ICUs and morgues that most of us will never see.
Even for those of us here-- who have lost loved one’s to Covid, I’m afraid that unless you know someone who is a front line worker -- a doctor, or a nurse -- the trauma of these last 18 months is becoming more and more opaque to the average American.
Second, the magnitude of our grief as it relates to Covid-19 is quite incomprehensible. Just in the last two days, 3,000 people in the US have died from Covid, which is the same number of souls lost on 9/11. It is almost impossible to comprehend the lives behind those numbers, the pain of all those family members, and the orphans left to grieve in isolation.
Lastly, unlike 9/11, this pandemic is what psychologists call an elongated trauma. For the last 550 days we have been on high alert waiting for the other shoe to drop. Finally when we let our guard down just a bit, delta rears its ugly head, not to mention omicron and all of the other unnamed strains that we will certainly encounter on this long and windy road ahead of us.
I don’t say this to add insult to injury. Rather, I say this because on Yom Kippur -- of all days --we are asked to embrace the long road.
Today of all days, we wear white to remind us that our here on earth is truly limited.
We fast in order to remind ourselves that there is more to life than what we can see.
We mimic death in order to remind ourselves what we’ve been living for.
But the long road isn't about dwelling on our mortality or suffering alone.
Rather, it is about feeling the pain, absorbing it, and then, only then, growing from it.
Because while pain is not a choice, growth is.
Pain asks: How am I doing?
Growth asks: Who am I becoming?
So tonight, of all nights, as Rabbi Jack Reimer once taught:
Let us ask ourselves hard questions
For this is the time for truth.
How much time did we waste
In the year that is now gone?
Did we fill our days with life
Or were they dull and empty?
Was there love inside our home...
Or was there a living together and a growing apart?
Were we a help to our mates
Or did we take them for granted?
How was it with our friends:
Were we there when they needed us or not?
The kind deed: did we perform it or postpone it?
The unnecessary gibe: did we say it or hold it back?
Did we live by false values?
Did we deceive others?
Did we deceive ourselves?
Were we sensitive to the rights and feelings
Of those who worked for [and with] us?
Did we acquire only possessions
Or did we acquire new insights as well?
Did we fear what the crowd would say
And keep quiet when we should have spoken out?
Did we mind only our own business
Or did we feel the heartbreak of others?
Did we live right,
And if not….Then have we learned…and will we change?