Newly Huddled Tender Masses: A Prayer for Children

Newly Huddled Tender Masses: A Prayer for Children
© Rabbi Menachem Creditor

Dear God, Protector of Children,
Guardian of All:

We haven't the words.
We are worse than witnesses.
We are complicit in the abuse of children.
We sin this very moment.

The horror of children torn from parents sends shockwaves through our very souls, so we turn away, remembering when children were taken to "baths," never to see their parents again. Never. Again.

So, Holy One, what could we possibly show You to be worthy of the comfort we seek? Nothing. There is little we can show You today. We show up with tears and signs, protest songs and prayers. While our children sleep in cages. Our children. Our cages.

God, the pain and sadness You must be feeling, as Your image is locked up and abused, as Your children are torn from their children, as cruelty inhabits the seat of American power. What rage You must feel at our wanton sinning. Our country is actively sinning, quickly distracted by callous clothing and damned by a short attention span.

It would be easy, God, to blame one person in one office for this evil. But we know better. We've witnessed entire societies stand idly by the misuse of legal systems to oppress others. We've seen refugees damned to death by quotas and rules.

It would be easy, God, to give up. Scattershot hatred is in the air. Where to turn. How to help. And, O God, we know there is little chance these poor children, newly huddled tender masses, will be reunited with their parents, little chance these terrorized parents will hold their children again.

God, what would You have us do now?

Perhaps there is hope. Perhaps. If we would but cry Your Tears, burn with Your Rage, act with Your Tender Mercy, and vote with an eye toward Eternity.

Please God, protect us from numbness.
Keep our children's pain present in our hearts.
Encode our next deeds with Your Love.

There will come a better day. If.

Amen.

The Doctor's Torah: A Poem

The Doctor's Torah: A Poem
© Rabbi Menachem Creditor
thank you, Steven Moffat. thank you, Peter Capaldi.

Without hope.
Without witness.
Without reward.

I'm not trying to win.
I'm not doing this because I want to beat someone,
or because I hate someone,
or because I want to blame someone,
not because it's fun.
God knows it's not because it's easy.
It's not even because it works because it hardly ever does.
I do what I do because it's right.
It's decent.
And above all, it's kind.

Just that.
Just.
Kind.

Everything ends.
And it's always sad.
But everything begins again, too.
And that's always happy.

Every story ever told really happened.

Amen.

#drwho #justkind #thankyoudoctor

Something Must Be Done

Something Must Be Done

(c) Rabbi Menachem Creditor

As she stands before me, speechless, I realize why it's all in place, this tradition. 

You see, in moments of no need (if there truly are such things), the intricate system of rule and custom Judaism calls halacha and minhag can feel like just that: a system. But, in moments of need (if only they were that seldom) these very same rules and customs seem hardly systemic - they serve as personally stabilizing anchors in a wildly careening world. 

In short, rituals are there to hold us safe when we feel wobbly and unsure (and provide language when ecstasy renders us at a loss for words). Sure, we have a hand in our living tradition's adaptive design. But the greatest gift of spiritual tradition - ours, theirs, and ones yet to be - is that it is always larger than the self. It isn't about me, so when something must be done, it doesn't depend on my creative capacity during my time of incapacity. When something must be done, tradition provides a real and grounded way to do it.

Oh, yes. One other thing: This isn't really about a "she." It's actually about me. I know what it is to stand before a Beit Din with shaking hands, uncertain and dependent. I know what it is to dissolve and feel the stirring of new life in the tear-touched waters of the mikvah. I know what it is to be skillfully led in prayer. I've been graced by both halacha and minhag throughout my life. I'm still learning their depths and richness. Thank God.

Tradition can be so very beautiful, and I'm so very grateful. 

"Ashreinu: Mah tov Chelkeinu, Umah ma'im goraleinu, uMah yafah Yerishateinu."

"Our joy: How good is our portion, how pleasant our fate, how beautiful our inheritance."

(morning liturgy)

.......
Rabbi Menachem Creditor

menachemcreditor.net

11 Years and Countless Moments: In Anticipation of my Farewell Shabbat

Song Heirlooms, Inherited Emotions, Mystical Prayers

The Moment that is Calling

The Moment that is Calling
© Rabbi Menachem Creditor

A moment is calling. It isn't neat, and it isn't agreed upon. It also isn't a reason for war. It is a moment of deep realness, where we set down our phones and gather the courage to look each other in the eyes. A moment is calling.

The innovation of a person finding their inner truth as a guiding light is no innovation at all. There has always been a dynamic tension, in America and in faiths of all kinds, between collective meaning and the place of the individual. Between scheduled rites and spontaneous spirit. There has always been personal striving, the seeking of "my destiny." There has always been the communal will to survive. We need more today than the delusion that these impulses are unique or new, more than the lie that we have evolved and are better than our ancestors. There is ample evidence that we are the same, that every technological advance is as prone to weaponization as it is to healing, and that every progressive social step is infinitely fragile. There is a moment calling.

Friends, it all comes down to, and could be as soaring as, looking each other in the eyes and knowing that our common destiny is as earthy and angelic as humanity has ever been. This commitment, this way of seeing, is not new, either. It is the language of holy living, of a Beloved community, of a shining city, of Heaven on Earth. No person and no nation and no People deserves it more.

This is moment that is calling: You are loved, and so are they.

19 years after Columbine, i believe - a #poem

19 years after Columbine, i believe
© Rabbi Menachem Creditor

i believe in this world
even when it writhes
especially when it groans

it is in those very moments
moments of deep pain
that the heart of this world is revealed

moaning means our pain has a voice
hearing moaning means our ears work
noticing moaning means our hearts work
noticing others moaning means our souls are alive.

today, 19 years after Columbine
today, hundreds of thousands of our children are moaning
their tears, their eyes, their souls, their voices

where are your ears? listen.
where is your heart? feel.
where is your soul? act.