[embedyt] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-qHS8c4nrc[/embedyt]On a cool day in late August, my family and I went up to Ellicottville to Sky High
Adventure Park to complete an intensive ropes course hidden in the mountains normally reserved for skiing. We knew nothing about what we were about to face, and I only found out right before that I would be participating as well. When Ashirah first told me the plan, I assumed it was just for the kids.
So, ignoring my normal fear of heights, I warily climbed the rope ladders to stations thirty-feet off of the ground. My seven-year-old and I chose a green diamond, while Ashirah and my older kids chose the harder blue diamond level.
Noam went first, easily traversing challenging obstacles like a thin tight rope braced only by an overhanging safety hold, and perpendicular ladders of narrow slabs of wood. I raced to keep up with him, finding myself wobbly in the spaces he glided over so easily.
With relief, I saw that we were nearing the end. The final obstacle, a fast zipline down into rope mesh netting. Noam made it down easily, catching the rope and moving to the safety of the adjacent tree.
I was not so lucky, hitting the end and bouncing back, ending up heading back toward the tree I had just descended from. A twenty-something Bangladeshi from New York City looked up at me with supportive eyes.
“Grab the rope and pull yourself up,” he told me, “You’ll need to start from the beginning.”
I looked at him skeptically, but followed his instructions as best I could, managing to return to the post where he currently stood waiting to take the same trip I just had.
“Now do it again,” he said, “But, this time, make sure to catch the rope netting and hold on.”
Taking a deep breath, I let go, racing toward the end point, and, as per his instructions, holding on for dear life, Noam already on the ground below waiting for me to join him.
I had done it, but not without the help of a stranger who I would likely never see again, who helped guide me to safety.
If the pandemic has taught us anything it is that we are tied to one another, often needing just that little extra push to get us back to level ground. That, it seems to me, is “hope – tikvah,” an invisible rope that ties us to one another and allows us to overcome even the most trying of circumstances.
A few weeks ago, I asked you on Facebook about your hopes heading into 5781. Here is some of what you wrote back –
From Barry Krebs, who has been separated from his family in Canada these past six months: “reopening the border.”
From Melanie Leberman, whose daughter Sarah, just celebrated her Bat Mitzvah a few weeks ago: “the silver linings from Covid like more time for my daughter to study, more time for reading and gardening.”
From Brian Schepart: “I have always pictured earth as a spaceship. As such, I always hope for a healthy, sustainable and respectful existence.”
From Daniel Ferber: “The love of my wife and the way my daughter looks at the world, the knowledge that we as a country have survived troubled times before.”
From Linda Bergman: “faith, friends and family”
From Maureen Fagin: “seeing the resilience of our kids… despite everything going on, they’re still happy.”
From Vickie Rubin: “health, peace and a safe vaccine.”
From Robin Raphael: “creativity and new science. Necessity is the mother of invention.”
From Nichole Weinstein: “no more finger pointing and being accountable. We all make mistakes, but we should own them. After all, it is human nature.”
From Beth Steinberg: “I hope for several things to go away: racism, agism, sexism, anti-semitism, bigotry, hatred, fat-shaming, violence, intolerance, hunger, poverty, failure to protect the environment, economic inequality, animal cruelty, homelessness, and the excessive volume of television commercials.”
From Mindy Weinman: “hoping for a world that has learned how to be wiser, healthier, safer, more caring, more tolerant and more understanding.”
From Mark Kneitinger: “That when this is finally over and we return to the ‘old normal’ that people won’t forget that a virus made us really focus on what is truly important in our life.”
From Rebecca Greene: “So many things give me hope, the wonderful teachers my kids were assigned, being surrounded by loved ones, seeing the good in people. It’s all around me.”
And, from her husband and son, Seth and Max Greene: “I don’t need hope, I know things will be okay.”
Hope – tikvah – can be hard to find, as we enter 5781.
She feels absent in this nearly empty sanctuary, usually brimming with life on the eve of the holiday.
absent in teachers and students not being able to attend classes in the way they are used to
absent in the many residents of senior communities who are not able to leave their facilities
absent in the chaos of our political system and pandemic response,
absent in our work settings bereft of human interaction, or perhaps facing a steep economic hills to climb,
absent in our walled off social environment, shuttered movie theaters and malls,
absent in the fabric of our lives that have ground to a halt,
absent even in the very symbols of our holiday, the now muffled cry of the ram’s horn, dulled taste of our apples dipped in honey, and misshapen round challahs that can neither be shared with those we most love, not discarded in creeks during tashlich.
No, this year, hope – tikvah – is most certainly, hard to find.
The Hebrew word tikvah, comes from the word Kav, meaning rope. It first appears in the Book of Joshua in the story of Rahab, the brave woman who risked everything to save a contingent of Israelite spies. When confronted by the King of Jericho to reveal their whereabouts, she lies and tells him they had already left the city through the city gates. When, in fact, the spies are hidden in the grain bins on her roof.
After the gates of the city are closed, Rahab lets down a rope from her home inside the walls of the city itself, and allows the spies to escape to safety. She only asks that when the Israelite army comes through, that she and her family should be protected.
“Now, therefore, I pray. you swear by God, since I have shown you kindness that you will also show kindness to my family,” she begs them..
To this end, the spies instruct her to hang a “tikivat chut hashani” – “a line of scarlet thread” – through her window as a sign to the oncoming Israelite army that she and her family should be protected. Her “line of scarlet thread” is the tangible symbol of the link between one human being and another, and the obligations we have to ensure each other’s safety.
I call “tikvah” our “scarlet rope of hope,” and, like the calming support from a complete stranger at the Sky High Adventure Park, it can make all the difference in the world.
As I think about the overwhelming circumstances we have faced over the past six months, there are many places I have gone to find tikvah:
I found her in my the voices of our leadership team at Congregation Shir Shalom as we navigated the narrow confines of shutting down and having to reimagine everything in a few days’ time in mid-March.
I found her in the large handwritten sign proclaiming “We Support Our First Responders” on Maple Avenue, only a block from Suburban Hospital.
I found her in the music of a bagpiper who traversed the streets of the city to cheer up cooped up residents.
I found her in the eyes of our newest centenarian, Jennie Pohl, whose birthday was marked by synagogue members in a Drive-By celebration on April 3rd. Watching her standing on her second floor apartment greeting everyone with a smile and a wave was priceless.
I found her in the eyes of our ten – yes, ten – Bnei Mitzvah students, who, completed their lofty assignment in the middle of a pandemic, and afterwards turned to me, one by one, beaming in amazement at what they had just been able to do.
I found her hands of wedding couples, who have promised their lives together, even when the original plans for their celebration have been thrown asunder, whose love shines, bright and beautiful in these dark times.
I found her in the outpouring of support given to those suffering through loss and hardship.
I found her in the countless people who have called the most isolated members of our community, week after week after week, just to make sure no one has been left behind at this critical moment.
I found her in the countless postcards and care packages that have gone out to encourage voting, and support democracy.
I found her in the simple, day to day stories of surviving and thriving in the most trying of circumstances.
And, I find her here, in you, even when you are not present in the room directly with us, we know you are here.
The “scarlet rope of hope” can be thin and hard to see. For some of us, it is barely visible at all. But, I assure you that it is there, and if you can only use it to brace yourself, we will all find our way to safety.
The word tikvah has a familiar ring to it this time of year. And, not just because of the words of Israel’s National Anthem HaTikvah, but because of the instrument most central to the Jewish New Year – the shofar.
T’kiah, we announce. Shevarim, Teruah, and now, to that list, we add Tikvah – Hope.
In the book of Joshuah, Jericho is conquered not by metal sword and catapult, but by the ram’s horn itself. Seven shofars blast for seven days, and on the seventh day the walls come crashing to the ground.
This year, let our shofar cry itself – our cry of Tikvah – break down the walls of despair and loss, of social distancing and masks, that separate us from one another – and remind us that the “scarlet rope of hope” still hangs ready for us to grab onto, and for us, to extend out to others in need.
As Seth and Max Greene proclaimed on Facebook: “We are going to be okay”
There is a tradition in Israel of wearing a red thread around your left wrist to protect against the Evil Eye – Ayin HaRah. Tomorrow at the Transit Drive-In, we will be distributing these threads, as a reminder of the “scarlet rope of hope” that binds us to one another.
Take it, wear it, make your own, encourage others to do the same. That way, even when we are not physically together, we will not be alone.
To a sweet and happy, healthy and hopeful year ahead.
A Shanah Tovah U’Metukah
Last Updated on 09/20/2020 by Marc Slonim