[Soon to be published in a book of poems and essays, "I
Remembered in the Night Your Name"]
Part I
During my first months in Jerusalem, I soaked up masses of
information about everything related to Judaism, from the
kosher species of birds and animals, to the order of the
sacrificial offerings in the Temple, to the proper
observance of the Sabbath, etc. I did nothing else but
attend classes, read books on the subject, and engage in
discussions about the same with the people I was meeting. I
was emerging out of the cocoon stage from an assimilated
American Jew and flying at dizzying heights as a Torah Jew
forged in eternity.
From the outside, I may have looked like a person drowning
who grabs for the nearest solid, buoyant material, whatever
it happens to be. Some friends and family explained it as a
need for structure and purpose, or even a temporary lapse of
reason. This, too, would pass, but I knew that it wouldn't.
To the naked eye, it was transformation. In reality, I was
peeling off the layers of my American cultural identity
until I was left with the essence of what I had been all
along, a Jew. I knew it was permanent. Having found essence,
why would I ever want to paste back on the peel?
I had an excellent Hebrew teacher when I was a child of ten,
and I was lucky that I still remembered how to read. Besides
some other rudimentary knowledge, I was a beginner in this
sea of information that just kept getting deeper.
One of the pieces of information that I gathered along my
new way was the custom of saying the psalm that corresponds
to the number of years of a person's life. For instance, at
the age of 29, I was living my 30th year of life, and the
psalm of that entire year was Chapter 30.
I vaguely remembered the Psalms having cropped up here and
there, mostly in a Christian context. In fact, I had never
associated them with anything Jewish, and had erroneously
believed they had been written in High English by some
medieval cleric. The name `Psalms' is really just the
English translation of the Hebrew word `tehillim',
which also translates as `praises'.
Now I set out to reclaim these praises as my own. I learned
that the Tehillim were primarily composed by King David at
different times in his life - times of explosive joy and
devastating sorrow, times of his betrayal by those closest
to him, and times of his elevation to royalty.
The word `psalms' had the ring of posturing, as if one had
to adopt an automatic position of reverence and supplication
that had the effect of creating a distance from one's real
feelings. But King David's words, as I read them now,
carried the heavy weight of his suffering and his deepest
longing. His pleading was raw and immediate. His delight was
rapture. His tranquility and trust were healing.
I wonder how I had absorbed the impression that Tehillim
were simply the formal, embellished Psalms I remembered.
Actually, this was just once instance of my misconceptions,
the most notable one being my entire view of Judaism as
bland and outdated, an attitude shared by most of my Jewish
contemporaries. It almost seemed as if we were the victims
of some sinister conspiracy bent on assimilating us into
oblivion.
I had just bought a translation of Tehillim with the Hebrew
on one side of the page and the English translation facing
it, and I straightaway looked up my Tehillim for that year.
I was startled by the parallels with recent events in my own
life. "Hashem, my G-d, I cried out to You and You healed me.
Hashem, You have raised up my soul from the lower world, You
have preserved me from my descent to the pit... You have
changed for me my lament into dancing. You undid my
sackcloth and girded me with gladness. So that my soul might
sing to You and not be still. Hashem, my G-d, forever will I
thank You."
Here was an expression of the overwhelming gratitude that
had been welling up in my heart. I really felt that I had
been pulled out from a pit just as I was nearing the point
of no- return. Suddenly, everything was utterly changed. I
found my soul, and that soul wanted to sing out and never
again be silent.
I said the chapter of Tehillim over and over again in the
English translation that whole year, and I continued to be
amazed at how pefectly it spoke about the turn of events in
my life. Just several months before, I had been living as a
stranger to my own soul. Now, I often felt like jumping up
and breaking out in a spontaneous dance to express the shock
of my sudden and positive happiness.
"For You have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from
tears, my feet from stumbling" (116:8).
*
Ten years later, I am sitting in a shul in the
Zichron Moshe section of Jerusalem. The women's section is
packed, and the same downstairs by the men. Over time, I
have warmed up to the original language of Tehillim, so that
now I read the Hebrew with understanding.
We are saying the words of Tehillim together, from the
beginning to the end, all 150 chapters. It takes us about
two hours. This doesn't allow for lingering over the meaning
of each word. The recitation is in unison and at a brisk
pace.
I look at the women sitting beside me and in the rows around
me, their books of Tehillim open in front of them. Most of
these women grew up in Jerusalem and never set foot outside
of Israel. Many of them know only a few English words. Did
they ever hear of Bob Dylan or the Little Prince?
Doubtful.
Are we saying the same Tehillim?
It occurs to me that the words of Tehillim are expansive
enough to contain all of us: our vital statistics, our
youth, our old age, number of children, our triumphs, and
the times that we were broken and had to rebuild our lives.
The words of Tehillim are a common denominator, because they
are the words of the Jewish soul.
Though I lag behind, the rhythm of my words joins the
greater rhythm. We stand with King David as he pleads with
Hashem. We are pleading for our lives. It's the eve of the
Gulf War, and we have been targeted for Iraqi Scud missiles.
For three consecutive days, the Jerusalem community gathers
in neighborhood shuls to say Tehillim.
"Shelter me in the shadow of Your wings, from the wicked
who have plundered me, my mortal enemies who surround me. In
their fat, they enclose themselves; with their mouths they
speak with arrogance...
I am poured out like water, and all my bones became
disjointed, my heart is like wax, melted within my innards.
My strength is dried up like baked clay, and my tongue
cleaves to my palate; in the dust of death You set me down.
For dogs have surrounded me; a pack of evildoers has
enclosed me, like a lion's prey are my hands and my feet. I
can count all my bones -- they look on and gloat over
me...
"Favor me, O Hashem, for in You has my soul taken refuge;
and in the shadow of Your wings shall I take refuge until
the devastation shall pass..."
We are doing what Jews have done throughout history when
faced with danger. Saying Tehillim and doing what needs to
be done.
[Dear Readers: The miracles of the Gulf War are behind us,
and we can face our present troubles with our Tehilim and
new ancient confidence. We are only halfway through this
essay. It is too much, too good, too real for one sitting.
So join us next week for Part II]
