Erev RH1 – 25 years later
September 11, 2001 was my second week of rabbinical school. What started as a momentous and joyful time in my life coincided with a momentous and tragic time for our whole country. I will never forget sitting in my first morning class that day, on mikraot gedolot, the study of the Torah illuminated by multiple classical commentaries, and hearing sirens…then more sirens, and more sirens.
I will never forget racing up to the computer lab on the seventh floor of JTS’s tower, newly renovated and reopened after decades of disuse following a devastating fire.
I will never forget peering over my classmates’ shoulders to read the news from a computer screen, barely comprehending what was happening, refreshing the page again and again to try to get more information.
I will never forget the stunningly beautiful blue of the sky that morning as we numbly walked back to our apartments after class was cut short, waiting to learn the devastating details of what was happening just a few miles south of us.
I will never forget that crystal clear sky turning dull and gray as the cloud of smoke and dust made its way uptown.
Today is the 25th anniversary of that day and it is also the beginning of the New Year. A day of national mourning colliding with a day of community gathering and celebration. The emotional dissonance of these two days crossing paths is jarring for many of us. But it is the overlap of the pain and the hope that I want to focus on as I share a few other memories of that fall of 2001.
After returning to my apartment with my roommates, we turned on our TV. Our next door neighbors wandered over and we all sat in our living room, watching the coverage. Eventually we ordered takeout, continuing our evening in front of the TV, punctuated by phone calls with our families, now that the cell networks were working again. That became our ritual for the first few weeks of the school year, crowding together in one of our apartments, watching what was unfolding in our country supported by each other’s presence.
Rosh Hashanah that year came just a week later. The buzz among my fellow rabbinical students was all about having to find entirely new things to say from the bimah. Many of us had been preparing for our student pulpits since the summer and were now faced with a double dilemma: how to find the words to capture everything we needed to say and everything our congregants would need to hear in just one week. And how to even come close to doing so as brand newbies, without the professional, or frankly, life experience to know where to begin.
My student pulpit that year was not a rabbinic posting; I was leading parts of the service and reading Torah at a small synagogue far out on Long Island. The long-time rabbi there was staying in his role, although it was clear from my contacts there that the leadership was trying to encourage him toward retirement. I was shocked and disappointed come Rosh Hashanah to find that the rabbi hadn’t changed his sermons at all. He barely acknowledged September 11, even though many of his members commuted to the city for work.
I needed what those sitting in the congregation needed – words of comfort, of strength, of mourning. It was disconcerting to say the least.
That year, I was working teaching Hebrew School at a synagogue in Hoboken, NJ. The rabbi was someone I knew from when he and his wife (also a rabbi) had been resident advisors at JTS when I was in college there. I was close with the family and was overjoyed when I learned that their second daughter was born on the second day of Rosh Hashanah.
September 11 hit that community hard. I had students in my class who lost parents. Everyone knew someone who was directly impacted. Hoboken sits just across the Hudson River from Lower Manhattan. From multiple places in town, you could just look out the window and see the devastation at Ground Zero.
Shortly after the birth of their daughter, the family held a simḥat bat for her at the synagogue. I made my way through the many missing person posters lining the PATH station walls to ride the train the few short minutes across the river to Hoboken. I was more than on time for the celebration, but I could barely get in the door. The entire synagogue was overflowing with friends and congregants, all coming together to celebrate the birth of a new child, all looking for a reason to cling to joy in such a difficult moment in time.
They gave their daughter the middle name Nechama, explaining that they chose this name after September 11, praying that she would be a source of comfort to those who were in need of solace, as we all were.
There is an ancient piyyut in the High Holiday liturgy that no longer appears in many versions of the Maḥzor – Aḥot Ketanah. Written by Rabbi Avraham Hazan, a student of Nahmanides, it portrays the people of Israel as a young girl, the “little sister” of the hymn’s title, who is yearning for connection with the Divine. The narrator sees her suffering, asking in every stanza for God to give her solace, joy, and peace. Noting the difficulties she faces, eight of the nine stanzas end with the words תִּכְלֶה שָׁנָה וְקִלְלוֹתֶֽיהָ, “May this year and its curses come to an end.” The final stanza flips the script, seeing potential in the year to come. The piyyut closes with the words: תָּחֵל שָׁנָה וּבִרְכוֹתֶֽיהָ, May this year and its blessings [finally] begin.
So as we look back 25 years and recall that world-altering morning in September, we can turn to those first eight stanzas and say, תִּכְלֶה שָׁנָה וְקִלְלוֹתֶֽיהָ, may we never again experience the devastation of September 11 or anything like it. And as we step into this new year, we can lead with hope and say, תָּחֵל שָׁנָה וּבִרְכוֹתֶֽיהָ, may we open our eyes and our hearts to a year of blessing.
September 11, 2001 was my second week of rabbinical school. What started as a momentous and joyful time in my life coincided with a momentous and tragic time for our whole country. I will never forget sitting in my first morning class that day, on mikraot gedolot, the study of the Torah illuminated by multiple classical commentaries, and hearing sirens…then more sirens, and more sirens.
I will never forget racing up to the computer lab on the seventh floor of JTS’s tower, newly renovated and reopened after decades of disuse following a devastating fire.
I will never forget peering over my classmates’ shoulders to read the news from a computer screen, barely comprehending what was happening, refreshing the page again and again to try to get more information.
I will never forget the stunningly beautiful blue of the sky that morning as we numbly walked back to our apartments after class was cut short, waiting to learn the devastating details of what was happening just a few miles south of us.
I will never forget that crystal clear sky turning dull and gray as the cloud of smoke and dust made its way uptown.
Today is the 25th anniversary of that day and it is also the beginning of the New Year. A day of national mourning colliding with a day of community gathering and celebration. The emotional dissonance of these two days crossing paths is jarring for many of us. But it is the overlap of the pain and the hope that I want to focus on as I share a few other memories of that fall of 2001.
After returning to my apartment with my roommates, we turned on our TV. Our next door neighbors wandered over and we all sat in our living room, watching the coverage. Eventually we ordered takeout, continuing our evening in front of the TV, punctuated by phone calls with our families, now that the cell networks were working again. That became our ritual for the first few weeks of the school year, crowding together in one of our apartments, watching what was unfolding in our country supported by each other’s presence.
Rosh Hashanah that year came just a week later. The buzz among my fellow rabbinical students was all about having to find entirely new things to say from the bimah. Many of us had been preparing for our student pulpits since the summer and were now faced with a double dilemma: how to find the words to capture everything we needed to say and everything our congregants would need to hear in just one week. And how to even come close to doing so as brand newbies, without the professional, or frankly, life experience to know where to begin.
My student pulpit that year was not a rabbinic posting; I was leading parts of the service and reading Torah at a small synagogue far out on Long Island. The long-time rabbi there was staying in his role, although it was clear from my contacts there that the leadership was trying to encourage him toward retirement. I was shocked and disappointed come Rosh Hashanah to find that the rabbi hadn’t changed his sermons at all. He barely acknowledged September 11, even though many of his members commuted to the city for work.
I needed what those sitting in the congregation needed – words of comfort, of strength, of mourning. It was disconcerting to say the least.
That year, I was working teaching Hebrew School at a synagogue in Hoboken, NJ. The rabbi was someone I knew from when he and his wife (also a rabbi) had been resident advisors at JTS when I was in college there. I was close with the family and was overjoyed when I learned that their second daughter was born on the second day of Rosh Hashanah.
September 11 hit that community hard. I had students in my class who lost parents. Everyone knew someone who was directly impacted. Hoboken sits just across the Hudson River from Lower Manhattan. From multiple places in town, you could just look out the window and see the devastation at Ground Zero.
Shortly after the birth of their daughter, the family held a simḥat bat for her at the synagogue. I made my way through the many missing person posters lining the PATH station walls to ride the train the few short minutes across the river to Hoboken. I was more than on time for the celebration, but I could barely get in the door. The entire synagogue was overflowing with friends and congregants, all coming together to celebrate the birth of a new child, all looking for a reason to cling to joy in such a difficult moment in time.
They gave their daughter the middle name Nechama, explaining that they chose this name after September 11, praying that she would be a source of comfort to those who were in need of solace, as we all were.
There is an ancient piyyut in the High Holiday liturgy that no longer appears in many versions of the Maḥzor – Aḥot Ketanah. Written by Rabbi Avraham Hazan, a student of Nahmanides, it portrays the people of Israel as a young girl, the “little sister” of the hymn’s title, who is yearning for connection with the Divine. The narrator sees her suffering, asking in every stanza for God to give her solace, joy, and peace. Noting the difficulties she faces, eight of the nine stanzas end with the words תִּכְלֶה שָׁנָה וְקִלְלוֹתֶֽיהָ, “May this year and its curses come to an end.” The final stanza flips the script, seeing potential in the year to come. The piyyut closes with the words: תָּחֵל שָׁנָה וּבִרְכוֹתֶֽיהָ, May this year and its blessings [finally] begin.
So as we look back 25 years and recall that world-altering morning in September, we can turn to those first eight stanzas and say, תִּכְלֶה שָׁנָה וְקִלְלוֹתֶֽיהָ, may we never again experience the devastation of September 11 or anything like it. And as we step into this new year, we can lead with hope and say, תָּחֵל שָׁנָה וּבִרְכוֹתֶֽיהָ, may we open our eyes and our hearts to a year of blessing.