Last summer, I had the sheer pleasure of taking my daughter to England as a graduation gift. This trip was something she had wanted to experience for as long as she could remember. You see, Ellie spent most of her childhood in Cincinnati, where my husband was born. As we would drive around town, Jeff would often say, “That’s the hospital where I was born,” or, “That’s the elementary school that I attended,” or, “That’s the baseball field where I would play.”
Whenever we visited my side of the family in Libertyville, I would relish in being able to share in this transmission of family history. I would point out the schools I attended as a young girl, we would visit the mall where I hung out with my friends as a teenager, and we would eat in some of my favorite childhood restaurants. As much as I tried to share a sense of my personal history with my children, I inevitably came up short when they turned to me one day and asked, “Mom, can you show us the hospital where you were born?” This I could not do. For I was born in the UK—Oxford, to be precise—during the time that my father served in the United States Air Force as a medic. My parents moved back to the States when I was just 2 years old, and I had not been there since. “Sorry, guys,” I would say, “I guess we will have to wait to go to England for me to show you my birthplace.”
I have to say, it was a thrill to go back to England—a place that I had heard so much about from my parents, but really did not remember at all myself. And it was an honor to share this experience with my daughter. We stayed with my college roommate, who has lived in London for nearly the last two decades, and we delighted in our day trips to Windsor, Stonehenge, and—of course—Oxford.
On the last full day of our visit, my old roommate insisted that we visit the National Gallery to see the special exhibit on the life and work of Joaquín Sorolla, the prolific Spanish artist who is known for his paintings of landscapes, portraits, and portrayals of social and historical themes.
As we walked through the halls, I took in the colors, the strokes, and the textures of the paintings. I read with great interest the notes about Sorolla’s life and work. And then I arrived at this painting.
At first glance, this painting seems to be hung the wrong way. For it seems to depict a grand house in a classic impressionistic style—but the house is upside down. But then, as I looked more carefully at this piece of art, I realized that the majority of the scene—the house itself—is not really the house. Rather, it is a reflection of the house seen by one who is gazing at the fountain in front of it. Indeed, if you look closely, you will see that the only objects that are painted as they truly are in the real world are the sculpture in the middle of the fountain, and just the tiniest bit of the porch and columns. The rest of the painting is, as the title says, “Reflections in a Fountain.”
There was something profound that grabbed me about this particular painting. Yes, it is beautiful—but there is more to it than that. For this painting caused me to stop in my tracks and really reflect on the nature of how we view the world. We like to think that we are seeing things are they truly are. However, as this painting pushes us to realize, most of what is in our range of vision is really a reflection.
I cannot help but think about a line my fellow students and I were assigned to memorize in Freshman English from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: “No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself, but by reflection, by some other things.”
And here I am, a little more than a year since I was first introduced to this painting that has haunted me for all these months. Speaking to you, but looking into a screen. And, yes, seeing my own reflection, as it were. I have said it before, and I will say it again. Thank God for Zoom. Thank God for Internet. Thank God we have the technology and the means to stay emotionally connected while we have to remain physically apart. We spend our days in front of monitors and devices. We connect with one another through the boxes.
In the early days of the pandemic, I attended many clergy and professional webinar sessions and meetings to figure out how to best leverage the tools and resources at hand in order to support our congregations and members through these very strange times. I wanted desperately to make sure that no one at Temple Chai felt isolated during the shelter-in-place orders. If you remember, we made sure during those first few weeks to offer programming each and every day so that if people felt that they needed some human contact, all they needed to do was sign onto Zoom and be with their community. At one of our think tank sessions, someone brought up the issue of word choice. They expressed some discomfort with using the word “Virtual” to describe the types of programs, services, and interactions we were instituting. After all, one definition of “virtual”, according to the Oxford Dictionary (you know I have to support my home team!) is “almost or very nearly the thing described, so that any slight difference is not important.” Like the subject in the Sorolla painting—it looks like a house. It is virtually a house. But, indeed, really it is a reflection of the house—not the house itself.
Now, if you know me, you know that I take semantics very seriously. I believe that our words have great power, and that we should be deliberate in choosing them. To this day, I resist using the common phrase, “Social Distancing”, because if anything—we are getting socially closer through our many interactions during the pandemic. We have had more people join us for Shabbat services, adult education programs, and social events on-line than we usually see in the physical world. I am confident that this is because we appreciate the need to know that we are not alone during this time. There is great comfort and meaning in being with each other on-screen. With this in mind, I really stopped to consider my friend’s point about using the word “virtual”. Are we subconsciously suggesting that the interactions we do on screen are not real?
And then I thought about the word virtual itself. And I realized that if I played with it just a little bit, I could spell it in a way that conveys the true mission of this great digital experiment we have all been performing. Virtual can, indeed, be reinterpreted as Virtue-Real.
And that is what this is all about. Realizing that we cannot go about business as usual these days, we do our best to extract the essence, the core, and the virtues we hold dear, and then we make them real through new and innovative methods. While we certainly miss the days and yearn for the time when we can reconvene in person, we realize that through this extraordinary need to adapt, we have actually gotten more in touch with the values we hold dear.
Indeed, it is said that disruptions, while never anticipated and rarely desired, can actually be opportunities for newfound growth. They wake us up. They shake us up. They challenge our attitudes, habits, and assumptions. They force us to view things differently. To notice what we might not have noticed before. To appreciate what we might have taken for granted. To find strength and resolve and flexibility and skill and grit that we might have not otherwise known we possessed.
And so, as we gather virtually on this Day of Yom Kippur, we affirm our commitment to keep these virtues real:
The virtue of Pikuach Nefesh: Saving a life. As we know, the ancient rabbis teach that this is the most important Jewish value. It takes precedence over virtually every other mitzvah—every other sacred obligation. We take this to heart—especially now. We do all that we can—mostly by keeping our physical distance and wearing masks when we are in each other’s presence—to make sure we do our part in preserving life and health.
The virtue of K’dushah: Holiness. Even though we are limited in terms of how we worship and mark Jewish occasions during this time, we affirm our commitment to live up to this afternoon’s Torah reading: K’doshim tih’yu. You shall be holy. We do this by staying firm in our commitment to live and do Jewishly—to gather on screen for Shabbat and holidays, to engage in opportunities for Jewish learning and action, to continue to be part of a congregation that serves as the foundation, backbone, and cornerstone of communal Jewish life.
The virtues of Simchah and Nechemta: Joy and Comfort. Pandemic or no pandemic, life does go on. And our tradition begs of us to mark the important moments in significant ways. I am so proud of the way our students and families have embraced their Zoom B’nei Mitzvah ceremonies, and I am so sadly honored to help bring solace to a grieving family by means of a Zoom funeral service and remote Shiva visits.
The virtue of Al tifrosh min hatzibur: Do not separate from the community. Yes, our building, for the most part, is still closed, but Temple Chai is always open. We have found new ways to reach out and engage with our members, and we are devoted to building upon these experiences and relationships and forging even stronger bonds with all of you.
And the virtues of Savlanut and Tikvah: Patience and Hope. It is interesting that the Hebrew word for patience comes from the root saval, which means suffering. Indeed, to have patience is to be able to suffer at least a little—to be willing to take on the pain and frustration of waiting for something. But waiting is exactly what we do, as we never give up our Tikvah—our hope for better days. For we know from our long and complex history as a people that life is often not easy, but it is still worth living. Yes, our lives are composed of moments. Some moments are joyous. Some moments are tragic. Whatever the moment we might be in at any given time, we know that it will eventually give way to a new moment. And so, as we mark this Yom Kippur day, we recognize the fact that we are living in an unprecedented moment. A moment that is lasting much longer than we had initially thought it would last. Nonetheless, it is a moment. And this moment will pass.
And when this moment passes. When we no longer join consistently through Zoom or Facebook Live, but rather in person in this sanctuary and meeting rooms of our beautiful Temple Chai building, my prayer is that we will remember these and other virtues we drew upon. That we always look out for each other’s well-being. That we always honor our commitment to live with holiness in our consciousness. That we always find opportunities to celebrate with and support each other. That we always remain dedicated to our community. That we always remember that we can suffer through challenging times without giving up hope that things will improve.
For as we anticipate the move of being focused on the reflection to discerning what is being reflected, let us pray that we can maintain the unique and expansive perspective that the reflection allowed us to have.
“For the eye sees not itself, but by reflection, by some other things.”
