Hello from Maryland. Here in the U.S. today is Thanksgiving Day. I considered writing about its fraught history or meditating on gratitude. But then something happened, one of those random reminders that nothing is as it seems. The inner world and the outer world are in constant cahoots. Sometimes it’s impossible to miss.
It’s Sunday, mid-fifties, clear. I’m on a long run through Annapolis. Listening to Ezra Klein’s interview with L.A.-based Rabbi Sharon Brous about three of her recent sermons. Near the end, she tells a lovely story to illustrate an old Rabbinical Mishnah, a code of law from 2000 years ago. My feet strike left, right, left, right in a 165 cadence, breath steady, left turn on King George Street, navigate the narrow brick sidewalk, dodge a baby stroller, skirt a tree, sidestep front steps. In my head the Rabbi’s warm voice spins images.
Pilgrims on the holiest of days arrive in throngs to climb the steps of Jerusalem’s Temple Mount. When they arrive at the arched gateway, they know what to do. They turn to the right for a slow circle around the vast courtyard. They circle the courtyard until they arrive back at the gate and exit where they had entered.
Except for the brokenhearted. They know that when they go to Jerusalem and ascend the steps to the Mount, when they arrive at the gate, they must turn to the left. They are to circle the courtyard in the opposite direction. Every single person who passes them coming from the other way must stop and ask a simple question: What happened to you? And the person will tell them, I’m brokenhearted. My loved one died. My kid is sick. I found a lump.
After hearing the sufferer’s story, those who are walking from right to left must offer a blessing before they can continue on their pilgrimage. They’ve made this long, once-in-a-lifetime journey to the holiest of sites on the holiest of days and their only obligation on that day is to bear witness to another person in their pain. To ask them What’s your story? And to give them a blessing.
“If you’re broken, shattered, the last thing you want to do is show up in this space with all of these people and go against the current in such a public and visible way. And yet, you’re obligated to do that.”
I’m pounding up a hill, the Rabbi’s words in my ears, the image of that courtyard in my heart, in awe of the profound effects this simple ritual must have on everyone. To be seen in one’s suffering. To bless a stranger who is in pain. And then—
My toe catches a loose brick and gravity yanks my body from upright to angled stumble-flailing. The uneven brick sidewalk rushes up to slam into my open hands, my elbow, my knee, my hip. I skid to a stunned halt. Rabbi Brous’s voice continues, We need to be seen by other people. We need somebody to say, tell me about your pain, help me understand what’s going on for you. And we need to be blessed—
I struggle upright, hoping nobody saw. Quick scan, what hurts, how bad. A red pickup truck slows, driver’s window down, fifty-ish man says, Are you okay? I’m embarrassed, give a thumb’s up (I hate thumb’s up, why did I do that?), make a joke, Gravity will get you every time. He says something else, be careful, the sidewalks, etcetera, and moves on. I don’t quite hear him, with Rabbi Brous in my ears. I continue my run, amazed, sore, smiling.
I have never quite bought into the shoulder-shrug generalization that people are self-centered, angry, fearful and violent by nature and there’s nothing we can do about it. I’m aware that my perspective is colored by my circumstances, that I have the luxury of this enduring faith in humanity.
Like you, I’m inspired by the lives of people like Harriet Tubman, Viktor Frankl, the Dalai Lama and Nelson Mandela. And (is this familiar?) I tend to exceptionalize such people. Of course, they deserve all admiration. But maybe they’d be the first to say that any one of us can draw upon cultural tradition and spiritual teachings to harness our despair, anger and resentment into action fueled by love. Into spontaneous compassion. Into the question, Are you okay? Into the blessing, Tell me your story.
I also have the luxury of an enduring faith in humanity.
This post stops me short in its simplicity and your elegant, careful prose. Wonderful! And perfectly told! I’ll carry this around all day - watching my step!