What does community mean?
I think I discovered my role in communal obligation this past week in two forms.
On Sunday, members of my family (several of whom traveled cross country) and I demonstrated on the National Mall in Washington, DC, denouncing the genocide currently tearing apart Sudan's western region of Darfur. Taking time out of my busy life seems easy when compared to the destitution facing the men, women, and children of that land. Listening to the religious leaders, program organizers, politicians, and other invited speakers urge our political institutions to take action, I couldn't help but feel at once both a sense of pride and despair. Our voices, while being heard, were alarmingly small in number. Yes, the issue of the day appears to be immigration -- and that is certainly important. But is there are more pressing concern in our world than that ugly "g" word -- genocide? I think not. Jews clearly took the most active and vocal role in the proceedings. It was impossible to walk anywhere in downtown Washington that morning without seeing a t-shirt or sign identifying the synagogue or movement with which a rally-goer was affiliated. We bear a responsibility to ensure that when we say "never again," we include all people, not just our own. But where were the other groups? Why were not large sums of Blacks, Muslims, and others present? My untrained eyes estimate that over half of those present (and I've heard others guess more) were Jewish. When we make up just 1.5% of the American population, I find it sad that others don't join in our commitment. But we shall fight on.
Late Wednesday night I was speaking with a friend who informed me of a tragic incident. A guy my age, whom I know through several friends, was in the midst of probably the most painful few days of his life. His paternal grandparents died just hours apart from one another. The day of the funeral, while sitting shiva, his father -- choking on a piece of food -- had a heart attack and died. The story left me speechless. It also left me wondering what I should do. I know Seth -- not well, but I know him. One of my close friends grew up with him, his wife also grew up with my best friend's wife -- I've become friendly with him over the years. I wasn't sure if I should attend the funeral (although since he grew up in Westchester, I'd only have a leave work for a few hours). I asked a few people, including Judaic teachers at school, and they suggested that not only could I go, but I should go -- it's a mitzvah. Still, I must admit that as I drove into the synagogue parking lot I felt a little uneasy. How would my presence be received? Not only had I never met Seth's father, I didn't even know the man's name (by the way, it's Jay). But then it struck me. As I walked toward Seth and Karen and saw how comforted they were to see me, I understood that the funeral is not about the person who died. Its purpose is primarily (at least the way I look at it) for the mourners. That I never knew Seth's father was irrelevant.
I'm starting to understand community a little better now.
On Sunday, members of my family (several of whom traveled cross country) and I demonstrated on the National Mall in Washington, DC, denouncing the genocide currently tearing apart Sudan's western region of Darfur. Taking time out of my busy life seems easy when compared to the destitution facing the men, women, and children of that land. Listening to the religious leaders, program organizers, politicians, and other invited speakers urge our political institutions to take action, I couldn't help but feel at once both a sense of pride and despair. Our voices, while being heard, were alarmingly small in number. Yes, the issue of the day appears to be immigration -- and that is certainly important. But is there are more pressing concern in our world than that ugly "g" word -- genocide? I think not. Jews clearly took the most active and vocal role in the proceedings. It was impossible to walk anywhere in downtown Washington that morning without seeing a t-shirt or sign identifying the synagogue or movement with which a rally-goer was affiliated. We bear a responsibility to ensure that when we say "never again," we include all people, not just our own. But where were the other groups? Why were not large sums of Blacks, Muslims, and others present? My untrained eyes estimate that over half of those present (and I've heard others guess more) were Jewish. When we make up just 1.5% of the American population, I find it sad that others don't join in our commitment. But we shall fight on.
Late Wednesday night I was speaking with a friend who informed me of a tragic incident. A guy my age, whom I know through several friends, was in the midst of probably the most painful few days of his life. His paternal grandparents died just hours apart from one another. The day of the funeral, while sitting shiva, his father -- choking on a piece of food -- had a heart attack and died. The story left me speechless. It also left me wondering what I should do. I know Seth -- not well, but I know him. One of my close friends grew up with him, his wife also grew up with my best friend's wife -- I've become friendly with him over the years. I wasn't sure if I should attend the funeral (although since he grew up in Westchester, I'd only have a leave work for a few hours). I asked a few people, including Judaic teachers at school, and they suggested that not only could I go, but I should go -- it's a mitzvah. Still, I must admit that as I drove into the synagogue parking lot I felt a little uneasy. How would my presence be received? Not only had I never met Seth's father, I didn't even know the man's name (by the way, it's Jay). But then it struck me. As I walked toward Seth and Karen and saw how comforted they were to see me, I understood that the funeral is not about the person who died. Its purpose is primarily (at least the way I look at it) for the mourners. That I never knew Seth's father was irrelevant.
I'm starting to understand community a little better now.
posted by gwheathie | 12:58 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home