Jerusalem Stones
Jerusalem stones
Walking, walking…
The lonely streets
So quiet in the shabbat-deserted landscape
Few cars, little noise finally,
After a week of traffic and throat-acidic-air pollution.
The stones bear witness
Slippery in the rain
Treacherous at times
So irritating
Yet they seem unconcerned
For the petty lives and loves of today’s broken souls
This city of paradox
So many faiths crowded together
People isolated or trapped in their respective mythologies:
The sounds of the muezzin mixes unharmoniously
With the church bells,
The steeples and the minarets dot the skyline
In competition for the soul of Jerusalem.
So many faiths
Each claiming its own truth
Each disowning the other
Each sending its children here for instruction
From the diaspora
For inspiration and intensity of study
From its spiritual teachers,
Yet the “other” seems not to exist
However fatefully forced to live in close proximity
In the wet stone buildings of this eternal city.
The paradox of the old and the new
The East and the West
The shtreimel and the burkah
The bekeshe and the nun’s habit
The density of pure piety per square foot
Competes with heaven itself
For the “truth” about the divine.
Does god in fact smile down on all this from heaven?
I am drawn here
Despite myself
I don’t like this intensity
I don’t like the heat
I don’t like the downpours
I prefer the quiet cool rolling cotswolds…
Where it rains so finely the drizzle doesn’t bother me
I like to be left alone from prying eyes
Who size me up by my yarmulke or clothing
Analyzing my shade of orthodoxy and praxis
By the implication of leather or felt, length of jacket,
It is almost too much, this noise and chatter,
The cottage industry of talmudic erudition
This pressure cooker
Waiting any moment to burst.
Too much to bear at times,
The blood stained sidewalks and café houses
Of Dr. Applebaum and his daughter,
Of children of all ethnic backgrounds
Sacrificed on the altar of parental
And societal and ethnic expectations;
These stones have witnessed the pain and suffering
Of those willing to surrender to this eternal city
Of those willing to die for myth and text and ideology
Of those unwilling to be scapegoats again in history
“Jerusalem of Gold”
The inspiration of poets and midrash
Shemer and Amichai
Broke their teeth on these stones and soil
The old city and new
The bustling the Christian tourists
Confirming the archeology of their saviour
With pseudo-science willingly provided by “certified” tour guides
In German tour buses with A.C. and cushion comfort.
This part of earth where the jewish faithful come to be buried
Hurriedly, flown in, heavy zinc lined coffins
Now only covered in white cloth, coffinless,
Followed by men in beards,
An industry for the mafia/black coated chevra kadisha
Who control food and graves in this secular country.
I walk by an abandoned muslim cemetery opposite the luxurious
Waldorf Astoria, the silent graves
bespeaking a different era of Turkish rule
And obvious graves of classy and wealthy patricians buried just
Outside the old city.
A city drowning in a millenia of tears, an old foto,
Circa 1917, general Allenby dismounts out of deep respect
At the Jaffa gate…the Turks have left finally after hundreds of
Years of Ottoman rule…
And the Christian conquerer proclaims
a free city for all faiths (sic)
The mullahs and the priests and rabbis lined in a row,
Bowed in deference,
The only commonality is obeisance to the new colonizers
The Turks and Marmadukes the British and the Zionists
Those who loved this city of gold
More than life
Those who would never leave its gates once having arrived
(not even for Uman!)
The study of halls of learning
Piety and punctilious observance of minutiae
(i watch them examine the aravot
With microscopic precision
Or push wildly to get closer to the rebbe in his succah
Or the funerary bier of the zaddik)
Those men who comb their payot before the mikveh
Unaware of their effeminate trimmings
The same mikveh that commands “tvol utzeh!”
(by the rebbe of toldos avraham yitschak
Demanding silence as they watch me an outsider
In different cloth, disrobe like an alien.
The same black coated men walking briskly along Mea Shearim
streets, competing with huge buses crawling through the same
Winding road :
That bastion of hassidic/hungarian piety some two unconscious
Minutes from the huge greek orthodox church and complex,
The graves on the mount of olives, next to the Augusta Victoria
Hospital housing the enormous bell donated by
Kaiser Franz Josef from Vienna,
While the nuns walk to their morning matin
at the entrance to the
Armenian quarter,
Past pictures of the first ethnic holocaust 1915-1920 plastered on
Jerusalem stone walls,
(a conveniently forgotten piece of history)
The faithful Muslim men bowing on their prayer mats
on the Temple Mount,
Where, at dawn, just below by the Kotel
that stone wall of wailing,
The sephardi mekubalim recite the siddur of the rashash
Nothing makes sense here
All are hurrying to worship!
All are claiming the truth
All are claiming exclusivity.
Yet somehow, paradoxically
It all does.
The military presence
Always hovering
Always a threat, seemingly arbitrary at times
For some protection,
For others occupation,
Colonialism redux
For all, undesired road blocks, but necessary
These slippery stones bear witness
To the millenia of conquering armies
To the piety
To the blood of the innocent spilled
To the desire and fervent hope for the coming of the messiah
(or his possible second coming?)
And the continuing wrangling over pieces of real estate,
Politics and wheeling dealing over square metres.
The “settlement expansion” and the clear distinctions between red
Tiled roof settlements and arab villages from afar, the facts on
The ground evident to all. The new once proud light rail winds its
Way through east jerusalem and with all the high tech, new
terror tactics at stations along the way
like the stations of the cross.
This Jerusalem of stone,
That gets under the skin and never leaves
That infuriates and irritates
But never relieves,
Like a migraine one must endure
Photophobic and unable to focus on anything but the pain
These stones remain
As witness as testimony
Of its eternity…
I walked these stones first at age 16 and now,
I have lived my life,
They have not changed.
I have failed as Dorian Grey
They have remained steadfast
This maddening city
She points her accusing finger,
She affords no tolerance for anyone
Whatever their conviction, religion, sect
Who compromise their values,
All who live here
Must live fully and without pity
Whatever the cost.
All must endure the slipperiness of her surfaces
And the immutability of her pavements.
This is Jerusalem.
Hesped for Rabbi Emanuel Gettinger
Just being here in this beautiful בית הכנסת with these wonderful faces; we thank you all for coming and sharing with us this precious moment. Those who came from near and far: my nephew Reb Aharon Gettinger came in from LA; Dr. Lipton, you took care of him with such grace and dignity and sensitivity to his wishes. Asher, my colleague Dr. Rabinowitz who introduced me to Abba as a פוסק when I was at Columbia Presbyterian, struggling with the respirator issues back in the seventies. Reggie… Reggie, you had such a special relationship with Abba. Auntie Rozy, I promise you Uncle Mackie is waiting for Abba with a joke at the other side.
Thank you all for coming and sharing in our grief and in our celebration of this life, a life greater than life, a person larger than most, a personality rich in its complexity, a fortitude in strength that carried us all and a humility and self-deprecation that was inspiring.
Abba came close to death three times in the last 18 months. Reb Dovid and I struggled over the phone with sheilos that Abba and I had struggled with for twenty-thirty years, three times. And it was after hearing the megila so eloquently by our friend Ira Wiznitzer and waiting till after bein hashmashot that he finally relinquished his final breath with a מיתת נשיקה on the 65th anniversary of the day I took my first breath, the day before spring. Which brought me this morning, as I woke, to a line from Yeats: "Through winter-time we call on spring, and through the spring on summer call, and when abounding hedges ring, declare that winter's best of all".
Thank you so much for caring, thank you for coming, for grieving with us. It helps us. It relieves us of this great burden, a little.
Where does one begin? Where does one have the nerve to summarize, to review, to analyze, to depict the full facets and the complexity that went into the personality of my שווער ?
His life was spent, as you have heard this afternoon, with the written word. His life was teaching and articulating the Sacred Text. But his last year, ironically, was spent in silence, בשתיקה , and the dignity with which he suffered and died betrayed the nobility of his spirit. His written words, his legacy, they took years, torturous years to birthing and publication, and yet they also betrayed the unspoken, the silence, the שתיקה , the space between the words, the unanswered questions, the "black fire on white fire", to quote the Zohar. His life's work, beyond his teaching, his ministry, his Rabbanut, his נסיעות , his patriarchy of his family, was his struggle with and in
תורה שבעל פה , his unique contribution and approach and his search for his truth, his understanding of the אמת לאמיתה , the truth unto its utmost. Despite controversy, despite the weight of tradition, the truth had to be told. This courage, this audacity that came from his mastery of the entire corpus of Talmud and Poskim and his photographic memory and his active intellect. For me, an over-towering figure in my life, an inspiration in so many ways, so difficult to highlight, so hard to share in public.
But sitting with him through the nights in the ICU, in the horror of the ICU, in the indignity of the ICU and in the quiet times in our home, sitting in his שתיקה , in his silence, throughout all, his lips are moving in תפילה constantly. "ואני תפילה" now has new meaning to me. He had become the very incarnation of תפילה לדוד, תפילה לעני .
There was so much time to reflect on the irony of Abba, of a man of words, his unique articulation, his precision, his grammar, his insistence on the פשוטו של דבר , the פשוטו של מקרא , his life in its simplicity, not naiveté, its clarity, its halachic precision; now silent, בשתיקה . The irony that the notion of בין השמשות should have exercised him in the first place. That gray time, the midrashic imaginative time, ערב שבת בין השמשות , when all sorts of weird creature and things that made no sense in the order of creation like Bilaam's Ass are now created just before Shobbos. That in-between time, that which is לא יום ולא לילה , should have so exercised a man dedicated to precision, black and white, night and day.
Other ironies: his deep connection with students at secular universities, his support of women's learning, his appreciation of the Arts and especially music, his love of astronomy and nature, the day before spring. His openness to critical study methods and yet absolute commitment to Halacha, his ability to talk to all people in all situations, men and women, and communicate with them; his charm, his unique sense of humor – that was usually tied to a semantic joke; his impish laugh.
But beyond this, his mentoring of men and women over the years, who stayed connected to him as a role model, as a sage with a profound ability to listen, intently. His council, his הוראה , always sensitive to the humanity of the situation in a delicate balance of what in secular legal circles might be called the balance between law and equity which is so lacking it today. Never will you meet a person who more faithfully lived his values, and as a central teacher he gave his students the tools to study independently, to think independently, to think critically, never trampling their own values. He was too humble a man.
He understood the mysteries, despite his claiming on many occasions, אין לי עסק בנסתרות . He would not tolerate my often soft Carlebachian interpretations, chastising me with the comment "סתם דרוש" . Boy, did he have my number. Yet he often supported my fascination in study of the זוהר הקדוש by stating: "my father did likewise!" and my love of the midrashic mindset, with the claim that "Rav Riff knew midrash by heart!" He understood that each person had a particular נטייה in Torah that must be respected and nurtured.
More than anything, his methodology was to invite you, the listener, into his conversation, into his struggle with the פשט , and his sense of a solution; inviting you to critique, welcoming commentary. His שיעור was work in progress, an invitation to participate in his reverence for the text and his excitement for the process in its playfulness yet holding it accountable to his intellectual rigor. And most of all, his insistence in the layered and textual strata that laid beneath the text. The sharper his scalpel the deeper the treasures he uncovered. He taught me to see the ים של חכמה , the ים של תלמוד , as an even surface, yet beneath lay layers upon layers of geological constructions and he was going to unpack these layers and lay them before all to see the very architecture and the phylogeny of the text. And yet, ironically again, all the while maintaining a reverence for it, without disturbing its sacred integrity. Where did he learn to balance these complex worlds, the classical Talmudic study sugiah analysis and modern techniques of literary critical analysis?
In the last year or so, in his silence, in his שתיקה , I find myself asking questions more and more. What would Abba think? What would Abba say? What would Abba do? His character is the foundation of my conscience. His precision is the foundation of my self-criticism. His commitment is the foundation of my devotion. I hear his voice reverberating inside when confronting an ethical issue, a comatose patient, a halachic decision. It is of comfort. His word was his bond. He never uttered a lie. His ethics put us to shame. He fulfilled every obligation he undertook. He was self-made and self-reliant. His moral conscience saw no disparity between Torah and ethics. His tears on תשעה באב were genuine. His poetry in קינות broke one's heart. His ability to be משמח a חתן וכלה was famous. His dancing was dignified, his hands wafting in the air, gesticulating his warmth and love. Yet simultaneously he would provide a unique and dazzling דבר תורה in the process. 'How could the children of בית שמאי marry the children of בית הלל if their attributions of the כלה were so different?' You've heard it.
He was stern at times. Don't expect praise if you're his child or grandchild. You're not going to get it. That was not his educational style. He demanded only Excellent, and suffered fools not gladly when it came to כבוד התורה and כבוד for this בית הכנסת . Whether it be פורים or שמחת תורה , there was no let up when it came to קדושה .
His continuing interest in science, computers, mathematics and astronomy, his ongoing subscriptions to specialty magazines in medicine and biology, his amazing all-absorbing mind saw no conflict between these and Torah learning. It was seamless.
His love of Zion and his fierce belief in ארץ ישראל , his suspicions as to the motives behind religious extremism, and his embracing of the charedi and non-charedi world and his respect for the holy young men defending the state of Israel – the soldiers of צה"ל , were legendary. All this made for his truly being called a Mentch Yisrael in the Hirschian sense.
A philosopher he was not, nor claimed to be. He was an interpreter who stuck close to the פשוטו של מקרא , refusing fanciful, pilpulistic or Chasidic interpretations, yet at times his reflection was so deep he understood the mystery and paradox of life and the divine. In truth his insistence on פשט was mirrored in the rational cool calm personality he was in life. It was as if his life mirrored his hermeneutic. He would have made a great physicist but was told by Rav Hutner – "physics shmysics", and as a result we are better off, the Jewish world is better off, for those critical remarks. A life devoted to others, to people, to yidden, to Klal Yisroel. Always humble before those who knew less, never lording his knowledge over the poor or the ignorant. His respect for all life and the other reflected a general and genuine aristocratic soul.
We are now impoverished by his absence in our lives.
In the last few months, Sarah would wheel him into the dining-room on Shabbos. Unable to eat, unable to speak, he would lip-sync the Shobbos zmirot as we were singing it. Sarah went up to him last week and said: "I kiss you all the time, Abba; do you want to give me a kiss?" and she put her cheek close to his lips. And he kissed her.
My dearest Abba'le, forgive me. There were decisions to be made about you without your council and without your consent in the last year… I had to make them. I hope I fulfilled your wishes. You trained me well. I tried to intuit your real desire, your sense of integrity of the human body, not to be disturbed, invaded, prodded, poked… Yet what to do? The horror of that ICU, the total invasion of your privacy… Please forgive me.
We brought you home. I planted you a fern garden… you sat in the sunlight. I held your hand. Sarah, I cannot begin to describe your devotion so I won't even begin.
Abba'le, your silent presence in our home was our greatest gift. Your שתיקה was our הודאות . We were honored by the gift of your life. It will never be the same again.
You left us a day before spring.
The winter time we call on spring, and through the spring on summer call. And when abounding hedges ring declare that winter's best of all.