Seven days ago, I turned my computer on after Shabbat to find out that in the 25 hours I'd been media-free, France had been hit with a horrific string of terrorist attacks, the country's deadliest spate of violence since WWII. Following that were (at least) 12 other terror attacks across the globe: Nigeria, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Mali, Iraq, Cameroon, and Israel all suffered incidents of terrorism, to say nothing of the ongoing carnage in Syria. For those of you doing the math, that's almost two attacks every day. At that rate, I find, it's very hard not to become at least a little bit desensitized to what seems to be an endless stream of horrible news. By Thursday, I was just scanning the headlines; I couldn't even read the articles anymore. But then, I saw this:
Whenever I hear about another terrorist attack in Israel, I feel the old block of fear and tension settle into my stomach. But this one was particularly impactful, for two reasons: 1) The shooting happened at a spot where I have stood many times waiting for buses or for friends to pick me up in their cars; 2) One of the victims was 18-year-old Ezra Schwartz, z''l, a recent graduate of a Jewish high school in my town. Though I didn't know him or his family personally, I am friendly with many people who did, and the loss has hit our community hard. For three days, I've been thinking about this boy and about how his family and friends must be feeling. I've also been thinking about my friends and teachers in Alon Shvut, who lost their friend and neighbor, 51-year-old Yaakov Don, z''l, in the same attack.
From this latest shooting, I have learned a sobering lesson that should have been obvious but that I think I had been avoiding: the people I love in Israel are vulnerable--they are not protected by virtue of being people I love; additionally, when I am in Israel, I am also vulnerable--I am not protected by virtue of being an American who doesn't actually live there. How is it possible not to be consumed by fear in the face of such harsh uncertainty?
Rabbi Marc Baker, the Head of School at another local Jewish high school, proposes an answer to this question. In his weekly message to the community right before Shabbat, Rabbi Baker writes,
"One of the most natural human responses to uncertainty and loss is fear. Sadness is an important part of a fully lived emotional and spiritual life. Fear, however, can paralyze us as individuals and disconnect us from one another and from ourselves...
One of my close friends in the Maimonides community wrote to me yesterday, 'People need to be together and communicate at this time and not be alone.' People need to be together and reach out to one another, letting one another know, 'I am with you in your pain, your loss, your confusion, your shock.' Sometimes, that is all we can say.
My friend's words reminded me of the words of the 23rd Psalm and so many other Psalms: 'Lo ira ra ki ata imadi--I will fear no evil because You are with me.' The Psalm does not say, 'I will fear no evil because I know everything will turn out okay.' We find comfort and confidence not because we know what will happen in the end, but rather because we do not need to experience our not-knowing alone.
Going into this Shabbat, I turned Rabbi Baker's words over and over in my head. Personally, I have always found connecting with G-d and with my inner self to be much easier than connecting with other people. But if I'm being honest, when I am staring down The Unknown, I really need all three--G-d, self, and others--to strengthen me against the fear. And lately I've been realizing just how critical connection to others is to me in this stage of my journey.
I consider "community building" to be the Last Great Frontier of my recovery. As I've said many times, I am probably one of the most introverted people ever. Socializing is work, and self-confidence amidst a group of peers is not something for which I am known. And yet, this Shabbat, the only place I wanted to be was within my shul community where we all, to varying degrees, were feeling the same sense of sadness, exhaustion, and pain. Even when we talked about other things, just being in the presence of others who "got it" was enough to strengthen me against the emotional roller-coaster of the week. It reminded me of how group therapy was once so important to me in my recovery because it was the only time when I was with other people who truly understood. Today, even though it required some effort, being in community was exactly what I needed, and what I know I will continue to need as I move through life--because no one can do it alone, and I am no exception.
As we all face the scariness of living in an uncertain world and the fear that comes with confronting the unknown, may we find points of connection with G-d, with ourselves, and with others--and may we take comfort in the knowledge that we are not alone.
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