Seidemann: Asking the right question

The nerve of him. In the middle of the Rosh Hashanah service. In the middle of Unasaneh Tokef, the prayer I wrote about last week. In the middle of the most frightening prayer of the day, this guy is making noise. Not a small amount of noise, a loud noise. Disturbing noise. I pick my head up from my prayer book, and scan the room to my left, where I believe the noise is coming from.

Through the maze of talleisim (prayer shawls), I can’t pinpoint the exact location of the disturbance. I can’t even discern the precise nature of the noise, other than to note a loud, shrill sound. My ears were able to sift through the other sounds, few as they were, and I, and hundreds of others, am stunned at what was playing out before our eyes and our ears.

A grown man, weeping, crying, sighing. Not the oft-injected fake cry we have all heard from those trying to impress fellow worshippers. Not the “almost cry, more of a krechtz.” No, this was a complete, full cry that went on and on and on. It was like the cry of a person who just heard bad news, perhaps of the loss of a loved one.

But as I stood there, I sensed this cry was even deeper.  It’s one thing to cry about the past. This cry seemed to be about the future, about his future. I became instantly paralyzed, physically and mentally, as were other people in the immediate vicinity. Why was he crying like that? What did he know about his present condition, physically, financially, spiritually that would play out in the coming year? What was wrong with this man? What did he sense about his new year?

And then it really struck me. The question was not why he was crying. The real question was, why wasn’t everyone else crying? Why wasn’t I shuddering in fear? I actually sensed a collective sense of lacking in at least those assembled in my row.

It’s two days later as I write this and I’m still not back to myself. Part of me was stoic anyway on account of the solemnity of the day, before the disturbing “wake up call.” Part of me was propelled into my own state of panic, like the gentleman whose sobs were a set of human shofar blasts. And the remaining part of me is still in a panic about why I wasn’t originally moved to a state of panic as that man was. So a week before Yom Kippur I am fidgety, anxious and as uneasy as ever.

There is a dual message in the Shofar formulation of the Tekiah-Shevarim-Teruah-Tekiah. On one hand the single blast then the broken blasts and finally the single blast is a promise from above: our lives are going along just fine, and then the disaster arrives and interrupts our serenity, fragmenting our lives like the broken sounds of the Shevarim-Teruah. At the end, another Tekiah, a unifying blast, will be sounded. In the end, G-d promises, all will be fine as before the interruption. That lesson is from G-d’s perspective.

But there is another lesson, one from man’s perspective. And it’s not as rosy. All too often we glide through life unaffected by turmoil. Then we encounter difficulty, we are momentarily moved, but within minutes we are back to the Tekiah, back to life as usual, without any recognition of the bumps in the road, as if the Shevarim-Teruah never happened.

So where are the cries? Where are the sobs, the worry, the demonstrations, and the outrage from our leaders and from the rest of us about issue after issue that ought to make us shudder?

Where are the cries about the Jewish poor? Where are the cries about the ill? Who is seeking out Jewish shut-ins? Think they don’t exist? Think again.

Where are the cries about Central Avenue on a Saturday night and all of the ensuing problems?

Where are the cries about an Iranian Holocaust denier who is closer then ever to making good on his threat to wipe Israel off the map? Where are the cries about a one-time advisor to President Obama who suggests that if Israel dares to strike Iran the United States should shoot down the Israeli planes?

Where are the cries about an administration that seems bent on bending over backwards to embrace Muslims at Israel’s expense?

Where are the cries over the same Holocaust denier who revels in that role, and is then afforded a podium at the United Nations to spew his venom?

Oh yes, there are Jewish groups and individuals aware of all of the above that do their best to press the fight.

But it’s not enough. More of us must take on more causes and be more vocal.

Where are the cries?  Why haven’t our elected officials criticized the U.N.’s Goldstone report that found Israel guilty of war crimes? Did any one of our elected officials demand any sort of action in response?

So in a few days, we will beat our chests over and over and over again, sin after sin after sin. Where is the gossip? We know where it is. Where are all the violations we committed, those between man and G-d, and those between man and his fellow man? We know where all of those are. To those questions, we know the answer. Those sins stare us in the face. But the haunting, still unanswered question, at least for me, as we approach Yom Kippur 5770, is where are the cries of those that had a voice, but chose to cry in private, if at all?

David Seidemann is a partner with the law firm of Seidemann & Mermelstein.  He can be reached at (718) 692-1013 and at ds@lawofficesm.com.

The nerve of him. In the middle of the Rosh Hashanah service. In the middle of Unasaneh Tokef, the prayer I wrote about last week. In the middle of the most frightening prayer of the day, this guy is making noise. Not a small amount of noise, a loud noise. Disturbing noise. I pick my head up from my prayer book, and scan the room to my left, where I believe the noise is coming from.

Through the maze of talleisim (prayer shawls), I can’t pinpoint the exact location of the disturbance. I can’t even discern the precise nature of the noise, other than to note a loud, shrill sound. My ears were able to sift through the other sounds, few as they were, and I, and hundreds of others, am stunned at what was playing out before our eyes and our ears.

A grown man, weeping, crying, sighing. Not the oft-injected fake cry we have all heard from those trying to impress fellow worshippers. Not the “almost cry, more of a krechtz.” No, this was a complete, full cry that went on and on and on. It was like the cry of a person who just heard bad news, perhaps of the loss of a loved one.

But as I stood there, I sensed this cry was even deeper.  It’s one thing to cry about the past. This cry seemed to be about the future, about his future. I became instantly paralyzed, physically and mentally, as were other people in the immediate vicinity. Why was he crying like that? What did he know about his present condition, physically, financially, spiritually that would play out in the coming year? What was wrong with this man? What did he sense about his new year?

And then it really struck me. The question was not why he was crying. The real question was, why wasn’t everyone else crying? Why wasn’t I shuddering in fear? I actually sensed a collective sense of lacking in at least those assembled in my row.

It’s two days later as I write this and I’m still not back to myself. Part of me was stoic anyway on account of the solemnity of the day, before the disturbing “wake up call.” Part of me was propelled into my own state of panic, like the gentleman whose sobs were a set of human shofar blasts. And the remaining part of me is still in a panic about why I wasn’t originally moved to a state of panic as that man was. So a week before Yom Kippur I am fidgety, anxious and as uneasy as ever.

There is a dual message in the Shofar formulation of the Tekiah-Shevarim-Teruah-Tekiah. On one hand the single blast then the broken blasts and finally the single blast is a promise from above: our lives are going along just fine, and then the disaster arrives and interrupts our serenity, fragmenting our lives like the broken sounds of the Shevarim-Teruah. At the end, another Tekiah, a unifying blast, will be sounded. In the end, G-d promises, all will be fine as before the interruption. That lesson is from G-d’s perspective.

But there is another lesson, one from man’s perspective. And it’s not as rosy. All too often we glide through life unaffected by turmoil. Then we encounter difficulty, we are momentarily moved, but within minutes we are back to the Tekiah, back to life as usual, without any recognition of the bumps in the road, as if the Shevarim-Teruah never happened.

So where are the cries? Where are the sobs, the worry, the demonstrations, and the outrage from our leaders and from the rest of us about issue after issue that ought to make us shudder?

Where are the cries about the Jewish poor? Where are the cries about the ill? Who is seeking out Jewish shut-ins? Think they don’t exist? Think again.

Where are the cries about Central Avenue on a Saturday night and all of the ensuing problems?

Where are the cries about an Iranian Holocaust denier who is closer then ever to making good on his threat to wipe Israel off the map? Where are the cries about a one-time advisor to President Obama who suggests that if Israel dares to strike Iran the United States should shoot down the Israeli planes?

Where are the cries about an administration that seems bent on bending over backwards to embrace Muslims at Israel’s expense?

Where are the cries over the same Holocaust denier who revels in that role, and is then afforded a podium at the United Nations to spew his venom?

Oh yes, there are Jewish groups and individuals aware of all of the above that do their best to press the fight.

But it’s not enough. More of us must take on more causes and be more vocal.

Where are the cries?  Why haven’t our elected officials criticized the U.N.’s Goldstone report that found Israel guilty of war crimes? Did any one of our elected officials demand any sort of action in response?

So in a few days, we will beat our chests over and over and over again, sin after sin after sin. Where is the gossip? We know where it is. Where are all the violations we committed, those between man and G-d, and those between man and his fellow man? We know where all of those are. To those questions, we know the answer. Those sins stare us in the face. But the haunting, still unanswered question, at least for me, as we approach Yom Kippur 5770, is where are the cries of those that had a voice, but chose to cry in private, if at all?

David Seidemann is a partner with the law firm of Seidemann & Mermelstein.  He can be reached at (718) 692-1013 and at ds@lawofficesm.com.