“Rabbi, We Have To Do Something!”
November, 2018
Miquel de Cervantes Saavedra, the famed Spanish novelist and author of Don Quixote, lay on his deathbed surrounded by family and close admirers. No doubt they wondered what this man of words, this artist and playwright, would choose to say to conclude his remarkable life. In a state of sheer panic, his eyes darting wildly around the room, he is said to have remarked, “I cannot go into the night silently! Tell them I said something!”
We all want to have just the right words, articulated succinctly, at the right moment.
Silence, however, has become a forgotten art. Although we are all familiar with the statements of Chazal and works of mussar that speak at great length about the virtues of silence, we don’t seem to be very good at practicing it.
Ever since the tragedy in Pittsburgh, the members of my shul have been reeling.
Throughout Queens there have been meetings with rabbanim and lay leaders about security, and with politicians about planning for the future. This morning my assemblyman invited me to a meeting with officials from the Department of Homeland Security.
Many of my congregants have a sense of urgency. “We have to do something!” they have been telling me. It’s an understandable reaction.
My shul already has an armed security guard. His name is Joel, and he is a deeply religious man who views his duty to guard the synagogue as an honor more than a job.
The other week when we made a kiddush for my mother’s yahrtzeit and, ybl”c, my daughter’s bas mitzvah, he even brought us a gift. Last year he came to shul on Purim and stood guard in a special costume he had created himself, figuring this would make his job easier when he asked people to take off their masks before entering the building.
Well over six feet tall, he stands armed outside the shul, watching not only those who come in but the children who go out to play. We have been very lucky with our armed guard, to say the least.
On the Shabbos morning of the shooting, Joel told me what had happened. Before we knew it, a member of the NYPD was stationed outside. Later, during Daf Yomi and the shiur before Minchah, when we do not typically have security, Joel came back, as did the NYPD officers.
After Maariv on Motzaei Shabbos, I implored my shul members to thank Joel and the policemen for their help that day.
The next morning, the president of the shul called me. “We have to do something!” he implored. “The shul must respond to this event.”
So I composed an email.
Dear Kehillah Kedoshah,
We all shocked, saddened, and shaken by the unspeakable events that took place this past Shabbos in Pittsburgh. It was, according to many, the largest massacre of Jews in the history of the United States.
Our response must go beyond concerns for additional security for our shul, although this is an important discussion to have; we must also have a spiritual reaction.
While we will have other opportunities to discuss this event, I urge everyone to come to shul this evening for Minchah-Maariv at 5:35.
In lieu of the dvar halachah in between the tefillos, we will offer Tehillim in memory of those who perished in this indescribable event, as well as plead to the Ribbono Shel Olam to protect us all.”
Before the Tehillim I explained that we would not allow this tragedy to take away our dvar halachah, so we would do both.
I also shared with them an idea that my wife had suggested. Once in Buffalo, there was a tragedy that struck Jews of all backgrounds (a story for another time). We made a night of Tehillim in our shul and invited Jews of other denominations to join us. My wife suggested that I say the following:
Why is it that Jews always turn to Tehillim? Certainly our siddurim of full of other wonderful compositions and tefillos. Perhaps this is because Tehillim is the one entity for which we all have the same nusach. Unlike siddurim, everyone’s sefer Tehillim is the same. The Tehillim recited in the Warsaw Ghetto were the same ones said in Morocco, during the Crusades, and during the Inquisition.
I also felt that it was important to mention an issue that was on many people’s minds—the fact that the tragedy occurred in a congregation with whose halachic and hashkafic standards we differ greatly. But I emphasized that there is no disagreement about the pain of spilled Jewish blood.
I also planned to reiterate the point I had made in the email, that it would be a tragedy if our only response to this event were to increase security. We all needed to grow from this terrible event.
Our recital of Tehillim was beautiful, but the next day I received a call from the shul chairman. “We have to do something!”
“What do you have in mind?” I asked.
He suggested that we dedicate two of my shiurim during the week to those who had suffered from the massacre, and that the topic should be how to respond to such an event.
I followed his advice, suggesting in my talks, among other things, that we strengthen our tefillos, kavanah and kavod while in shul.
I thought the shiurim went well, but later that week I received a phone call from the head of the chesed committee. “We have to do something!” she said. “Perhaps we can help the community of Pittsburgh in some way.”
Suddenly I had a memory of Squirrel Hill in Pittsburgh…Nutti Rosenblum.
Nutti’s name was mentioned often in my home when I was growing up. He was my eldest brother’s roommate in Ner Yisrael Toronto.
Nutti got married and had a baby daughter. In 1986, when she was a month old, he was visiting his in-laws in Pittsburgh for Pesach, and just seven hours after he arrived with his family, he was shot five times. This happened at about 9:15 p.m. on April 17. He was shot
in the abdomen, chest, arms and leg as he walked alone back to his in-laws’ home on Shady Avenue, following davening at Kollel Bais Yitzchok. He was killed because he was Jewish.
I was in elementary school when this happened. I remember that after I heard about it, I ran into my room and shut the door.
My mother, a”h, knocked and came in. She said, “Sometimes we get angry when there is nothing we can do. Sometimes Hashem does things that we do not have the ability to understand. But there is something you can do, Moshe—you can do more mitzvos.”
I repeated this to the head of the chesed committee, telling her that while I didn’t know if Pittsburgh needed us for anything, we needed us for everything. The ultimate chesed we can do for kedoshim who are killed because they are Jewish is to grow in our Yiddishkeit, making sure their deaths are not in vain and that their aliyah is ceaseless. Their death will not be in vain and that their aliyah is ceaseless.
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