Holy Ground

Highlands was Holy Ground. 

I’m not sure where I want to go with this, but I feel like I need to say something.  Such an evening deserves commemoration. 

Anytime a multitude converges with a singular, righteous, and unimpeachable purpose, an animating spirit inspires the group.  Carefully scanning the crowd and singing Hebrew spirituals with awe, my 9-year-old sensed it.  In relentlessly trying to learn the names of the victims, my 6-year-old got it.   (But that doesn’t surprise me; like Wordsworth, I think children are attuned to such things, and age stifles our senses: “The Child is the Father of the Man.”)

On Tuesday night, Temples Beth-El and Emanu-El led a prayer vigil to memorialize the victims of Saturday’s shooting and to express solidarity with the Squirrel Hill and Tree of Life Synagogue communities.  The crowd was diverse, interfaith, and united in spirit.  Ground-zero for so many tragedies, Birmingham is uniquely equipped to empathize with the suffering of our friends in Pittsburgh.  Our compassion was evident in the size of the crowd, the swell of voices in song, and the communal humility and reverence in prayer. We’ve been there.  We understood.  It’s embedded in our cultural genetics.  Candles were lit in tribute to the 11 people killed, the lights representing their living presence.  A Christian pastor reminded us that when one of us is accosted by hate we are all victims.  And our mobile phones, often objects of distraction and cynicism, became flickering heralds of light and hope.  The mourning succumbed to the beauty, the communion, and the calls to action. 

Rabbi Slater, of Temple Beth-El suggested that the world is diminished when even one person is lost.  Rabbi Moshe Rube, of Knesseth Israel shared, “Our sages tell us that one who saves a life has, in effect, saved an entire world; and by contrast, those that take a life destroy a world.” Powerful sentiments, echoed, I’m sure, in so many faith communities.  But this particular diction resonates.  Now, I feel, intrinsically, that I value all life.  But when a life is taken, the world is diminished?  Taking and Saving worlds?  The language destroyed me!  In a moment, I was evaluating my values.    This angle adds a depth and dimension that demands attention.  Have I been inconsistent?  A hypocrite?  Do I value life in degrees?  Of my enemies—of people who terrorize humanity, does the belief still hold?  In a minute, myriad thoughts and scenarios swirled.  Still uncertain where I stand, their comments are a mirror, and I’m staring at myself. 

Even from a secular stance, this is the optimal, humane position.  It asserts that we are all critical components of creation, essential in this vast and unknowable human matrix.  I can choose to view you as something less.  But It’s better to invest value and love in every life.  The effects are reciprocal, and we pay it forward, culminating in communities enhanced by their greatest resources—their people.  With dignity, value, and purpose, I am both better to myself and better to you. 

I picked up the boys early on Tuesday.  Leaving school, I reminded them to get their homework and reading done.  We were heading back downtown.  Zachary said, “Oh yeah, we have to go to the funeral for those 11 people who got killed.”  Pretty close, kiddo.  I decided the night before that they needed to go with me—no option.  Each in his own way, the boys know evil exists in the world; I wanted to show them a triumphant goodness, born out of mourning and solidarity.  If it takes a tragedy to galvanize communities and our better selves, then we must ensure lives lost—all over the world—aren’t lost in vain.  When the world is diminished, we must restore it. 

Zachary (6) was inquisitive; Gabriel (9) was observant.  Zachary wanted to know the names of the victims.  Not knowing the victims, he wanted to know who would take care of the children who lost parents.  A woman behind us asked him if his heart hurt; quiet for the first time all night, Zachary nodded.  Eavesdropping, Gabriel answered yes in his own way.  His face betrayed as much.  He watched the crowed, listened to the words, sang the songs.  Feeling the collective love and power of the gathering, Gabriel was visibly moved. 

How do we help our children choose love?
 
Our legacies, our footprints, are most evident in our children.  Our legacies are manifest in their character.  We model advocacy for what is good and just.  We actively stand for love.  And with inexorable voices, we defy evil.  In the absence of a standard childhood experience (thank goodness!), we must police ourselves to ensure that we’re always projecting a version of the world that is right and just for all.  And yes—we hope our kids are watching and asking the questions. 

Jewish tradition argues that words must be backed up by action.  Each human is called to be an activist for the general welfare, to enhance the world.  In a symbolic, instructive gesture, we walked from Beth-El to Emanu-El—a physical distance of a few hundred yards that has miles of figurative meaning.  Very literally, we had our boots on the ground.  We were making connections—from Temple to Temple, from Birmingham to Pittsburgh.  Starting at a place of mourning, we walked forth, shining lights to illuminate the darkness.  We processed and progressed.  I think we made a little progress.  It’s easy to say Shalom, but how can we be Shalom?  Showing up is just the first step of many.  Where will our footprints lead?  Whom will we influence?  Who knows.  But we did show up, and we brought our kids.  And that’s the first step.


Niko Tsivourakis
Global Initiatives Director