Rabbi Joshua Lesser
| The Holy of Holies | ||
| In the paper mache of my
memory There is a Garden of my making Where you continue to roam Unbounded, unfettered and exquisite It is here that I tell you all that has weighed so heavy on the steppes of my heart Amid the hydrangea and orange trumpet blossoms My secrets are laid bare to you Even the darkest ones that take flight under the gleaming sun I have no fear in the Garden Just truth and love. In the concrete of my reality There is a hole in my heart Where you are no longer Your voice, your kind eyes, your hand Are no longer to comfort or seek comfort Amid the walls and in the streets I seek you out but you are not there In this drab, cold winter I try to talk but there is nothing But a pain that throbs like a finger that's been cut My mourning whips like the wind In this frigid truth and yearning to love Deep in the Holy of Holies Is Life's mystery of mysteries And it is where my memory and my reality embrace. | ||
| One red tulip | ||
One red tulip. Auschwitz. A living kaddish. One year ago. Auschwitz. One red tulip, one year ago, bloomed in Auschwitz. It was a solitary kaddish with ruby petals and glossy green leaves. One red tulip. Planted in that liminal space of the dead and the living. Auschwitz. The bulb and roots deep in the soil of Jewish blood, its delicate momentary flower defiantly praising God's name. Kaddish. One red tulip. Marching. In Auschwitz to Birkenau. One red tulip. I wanted to pluck it and keep it, but this was not my flower any more than this was my tragedy. This red tulip did not belong to me—it belonged to the world. Its cry was that of our ancestors; its praise of the Source of Life was of the living. One red tulip. A kaddish. A bridge. Between praise and despair. Between life and death. Between God and no God and back to God again.
A year ago, with the ADL, I spent the days around Yom HaShoah in Poland. Krakow, Auschwitz, Birkenau, Wausau, Majdonic. Making our way from Auschwitz to Birkenau on the March of the Living was a solitary red tulip. Others walked by without so much a glance, but there it was a growing question mark—a paradox. Nothing so beautiful deserved to come out of this ground. Nothing. One red tulip: Vengeance. My unknown family died in Poland, siblings my grandmother refuse to mouth. One red tulip. How does one learn the history of the holocaust and not encounter the seething, teeming redness of rage. What unspeakable questions lie beneath the earth of the blooming rage? One red tulip. A clenched fist, shaking at humanity and shaking at heaven. A clenched fist with every hate filled word I have ever heard about Jews. One red tulip: A clenched fist with every fear of being able to hold a loved one's hand. One red tulip. A clenched fist filled with regret and restraint and so much curiosity of retaliation.
But every tulip opens its petals. Every tulip, this one included sings Ani Ma'amin. I believe. I believe with perfect faith that though the Messiah tarries, that I will wait. I will open in belief. One red tulip. A heart that knows winter and loves anyway. A heart that was stored in the wintry ground dark and frozen. A heart that has faith in love even when it can't. One red tulip in Auschwitz testifies how good it is when humanity can dwell together even when it hasn't. One red tulip. A hope for love that has yet to blossom. I believe. With perfect faith I believe. One red tulip. | ||
| When I Question My Faith | ||
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When I question my faith I seek Your Presence in Rising of the Sun And in his setting In the moon’s glide across the night’s expanse In all her shapes and sizes Even when she disappears Hiding beneath the canopy of stars When I question my purpose I seek your presence In the pull of the tides Courting the sandy shores In the morning bird’s song That sings even after the stormy eve Continuing his flight and nest building When I question my wisdom I seek your Presence Amongst the grove of trees Whose timeless presence Bears witness to change and all that is constant In the lightening that strikes With thunderous crash And burns the forest With unexplained loss and renewal When I question my faith My purpose My wisdom I seek your guidance In knowing my place In this vast universe Teach me the rhythms of your cycles Guide me to be a steward of this place In which you roll out light upon dark Day before night Doubt before faith Thought before action And searching before knowledge Blessed are you Who brings on the evening | ||
| YK poem | ||
Look to the world She can teach you forgiveness Beaten down by violent storms The earth copes Rivers rise and fall Limbs are strewn The grasses, the flowers Bow and touch low to the ground As if to return to the roots from which they sprang But slowly when there is sun There is movement Often painstakingly slow They let go of the past Stand back upright And return to doing what they know best Offering praise for their role In the creation of it all. | ||