Idealogian

9/11

On September 15, 2001, I had about two dozen friends over for s'udah sh'lishit. Over the past week, I've tried to commit to writing what I said that evening. My memory, while good, is not impeccable, but I've tried to convey here some of the thought and emotion that I expressed that day.

" כִּי הַמִּצְוָה הַזֹּאת, אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מְצַוְּךָ הַיּוֹם--לֹא-נִפְלֵאת הִוא מִמְּךָ, וְלֹא רְחֹקָה הִוא.לֹא בַשָּׁמַיִם, הִוא: לֵאמֹר, מִי יַעֲלֶה-לָּנוּ הַשָּׁמַיְמָה וְיִקָּחֶהָ לָּנוּ, וְיַשְׁמִעֵנוּ אֹתָהּ, וְנַעֲשֶׂנָּה. וְלֹא-מֵעֵבֶר לַיָּם, הִוא: לֵאמֹר, מִי יַעֲבָר-לָנוּ אֶל-עֵבֶר הַיָּם וְיִקָּחֶהָ לָּנוּ, וְיַשְׁמִעֵנוּ אֹתָהּ, וְנַעֲשֶׂנָּה. כִּי-קָרוֹב אֵלֶיךָ הַדָּבָר, מְאֹד: בְּפִיךָ וּבִלְבָבְךָ, לַעֲשֹׂתוֹ. "

"For this commandment that I command thee this day, it is not too hard for thee, neither is it far off. It is not in heaven, that thou should say: 'Who shall go up for us to heaven, and bring it unto us, and make us to hear it, that we may do it?' Neither is it beyond the sea, that thou should say: 'Who shall go over the sea for us, and bring it unto us, and make us to hear it, that we may do it?' But the word is very close unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that thou may do it.'

D'varim 30:11-14

The pasuk here, in this week's parshah, refers to something, some mitzvah, that we are told is near to us – easy for us. But we are not told what this pasuk is referring to – what mitzvah. So of course, there's a machloket.

Ibn Ezra says that the p'sukim are referring not any particular mitzvah, but rather to the entirety of Torah. Mitzvot in general, while they may be based in the heart and hard to pin down, are generally accompanied by actions that make them easier for us to tangibly achieve.

Ramban and S'forno, on the other hand, take their cue from the context of the pasuk. The previous parshah focused on a particular theme – "va'hasheivota el l'vavecha … v'atta tashuv v'shamata b'kol Hashem … ki tashuv el Hashem Elokecha b'chol l'vav'cha uvchol nafshecha" – you will do t'shuvah, you will repent (D'varim 30:1-10). Thus, these commentators explain our p'sukim as referring not to all mitzvot, but rather to the very specific mitzvah of t'shuvah – repentance. We may think it's hard to change our ways, to defy our nature, but in fact, it's within our grasp. It is not beyond the sea.

But I have a question. A pretty good one I think. If t'shuvah is supposed to be so easy, right there in our mouths and hearts, then why does it always seem so hard? Why, and I speak for myself here but I would imagine I'm not alone, do we always seem to get stuck? To find ourselves in the same place every year? Why do we say the same "ashamnu"s every Yom Kippur, the same thing over and over? Why can't we truly repent and move on?

Rav Yehuda Amital, one of the roshei yeshiva of Gush (Yeshivat Har Etzion), addressed this question with a mashal, a parable. Two men were traveling through a forest. Night approached, and the sky began to grow darker. Soon, clouds gathered, and a tremendous storm began to rage about them. In the darkness and confusion, the men lost their way and strayed from the path along which they had been traveling. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning seared its way across the sky, lighting up the area for miles around. And while one man stood dumbstruck, awed by the bright flash and deafening thunder, the other used the brief moment of illumination to find his way back to the path and make his way out of the forest.

We all have our flashes of light, but what do we do with them? When we experience a beautiful s'udah sh'lishit, do we simply enjoy the singing and food, and then go home after Shabbat as if nothing had happened? Or do we allow ourselves to be inspired, and let that experience infuse the rest of our week with a greater sense of spirituality?

When we take part in an intense davening on Rosh HaShannah or Yom Kippur, do we simply say, "Wow, that was nice. Same time, next year," and then go back to living the next year with the same complacency we did the last? Or do we use the experience as a springboard to reach new levels of commitment and observance in the coming year, to find our way back to the path that we should have been on before?

This much of the d'var torah I had actually formulated by Monday afternoon. I would now add: when you're looking out your office window and you see an airplane collide with a skyscraper, how do you react to that?

There's been a lot of discussion this week about what, if anything, is the message from all this. What is God trying to tell us? I don't claim to know what the message is. Someone once asked Rav Amital, "If I'm walking down the street and I stub my toe, is that God's way of telling me to do t'shuvah?" Rav Amital answered, "If God's trying to tell you anything, it's to watch where you're going. As for t'shuvah – you should be doing that anyway."

I don't know what God is trying to tell us. I don't know what the message is. But I do know that this was a light – an awful flash in the darkness for those of us who are lost.

As some of you know, I was a couple of blocks away when the first plane hit. I saw flaming wreckage falling from the tower, and the ash from the debris fell in my hair and down my shirt. But not having seen the plane, not knowing what had happened, I continued on to work. Right when I got there, my father called. He had heard reports of a plane hitting the tower and wanted to make sure I was OK. On the 37th floor of my building, about a half a mile southeast of the World Trade Center, I had a perfect view of both towers, the gaping hole in the side of one of them, and the flames pouring out of that hole. And as I sat there, describing to my father what I saw, the second plane came in from the left and, clearly making a deliberate turn to hit the building, sliced right into the second tower.

The plane exploded; my windows shook; I dropped the phone and started to cry. After a few seconds, I pulled myself together, got back on the phone with my father and told him that I was OK and what I had just seen. He told me they'd probably evacuate my building soon, which they did right then. I told him I had to go, hung up the phone, and quietly but quickly made my way to the elevator.

And as I stood there, nervously waiting for the elevator, not entirely sure whether we'd survive the next five minutes or not (for all we knew, there were twenty more planes, ready to level all of downtown Manhattan), one question was racing through my mind – one thought kept nagging me.

Did I say "I love you?" Before I hung up the phone, did I tell my father I love him? I mean, I know I said, "Goodbye." I think I even said, "Have a good day," (which, in retrospect, was quite absurd). But did I say "I love you, Dad?" I almost turned around and walked back to my desk, to call him and tell him, just in case I hadn't before. But that would have been silly considering the situation. I didn't want to waste any time leaving that building. But I sure wished I had said, "I love you."

How can I ever talk to my father again and hang up the phone without saying, "I love you?" And not because every time might be my last; I'm not that neurotic. (I'm neurotic; just not that neurotic.) But because in that moment, in that horrible flash of light, I saw the path I was supposed to have been on before. I saw what was important to me, and I realized that I should have always done it.

Over the past few days, I've been davening with more intensity, praying for the safe return of those who are missing and injured, and for the peace of mind of their families.* So once it's all over, once everyone is hopefully safe back home, do I stop? Do I go back to my normal, dispassionate prayers? Certainly not.

Since the attacks, I've worked on becoming a little closer to my friends, strengthening my relationships. When this is all done, and we no longer feel the same common fear and loneliness, do we forget all that? Return to our casual friendships, the way we were before? I hope not.

Because, though I don't presume to know what, if anything, God was trying to tell us through Tuesday's attacks, I do know that they were a light. They showed me what's important to me and what I should have been doing all along. And once I find my way back to that path, I don't intend to leave it quite so quickly.

I'd like to add one more brief thought. It's based on something I heard from Rabbi Lamm a few years ago, after a YU student passed away. We are all created b'tzelem Elokim – in the image of God. Rabbi Lamm explained that at least part of what that means is our power to think and make decisions, and specifically our ability to distinguish between good and bad, right and wrong.

We lost a whole lot of tzelem Elokim this week. Thousands of manifestations of God's greatness, gone forever. In the wake of such an enormous tragedy, it becomes our responsibility, as those who are here to remember them, to make up for that loss. For each of us to enhance our own individual tzelem Elokim by strengthening our sense of good and evil and our commitment to do what is right.

* Sadly, not all my prayers were answered the way I wanted them to be.