Every Thursday morning in our 5th and 6th grade tefillah, we sing Psalm 150. The ancient words are no stumbling block for our children–they sing with an understanding of the Hebrew with full spirits. Although they understand current events and are all too aware of the challenges we are facing, they find a way to chant with joy. Just as they did centuries ago in the halls of our ancient Temple, the words of this beautiful psalm resonate throughout the sanctuary in the voice of the next generation. Each week, my heart fills with an almost impossible but extraordinary levity and hope. Psalms are a vehicle for us to process our feelings; our anguish, our grief, while still being lifted by God, by the wisdom of our tradition, by hope and the beauty of life.
I am so grateful to the contemporary voices of our tradition who continue the legacy of our psalmists, who work to develop an ongoing canon for our Jewish hearts to both turn inward and to cry out to God. I recently discovered the poetry and prayers of Rabbi Hanna Yerushalmi, an Israel-based ordained rabbi, counselor, and writer. In the great tradition of our psalms, her recent writings make space for the rollercoaster of emotions we all experience day to day in this post-October 7th world. I hope you’ll find the piece below as heart-opening as I have.
–Cantor Emma Lutz
“Sit in Silence” by Rabbi Hanna Yerushalmi
During this moment of silence, bring me the grief of my people,
Centuries born and centuries old, and let it inspire me to still love the world.
Connect me with fleeting grace and the prophet’s power
To keep opening up my soul even when it is seared with loss.
Bring me the courage to quiet my desperate need for answers
By letting hearts touch hearts on some imagined coastal plain.
Bring me the tentative hope in a room before a newborn’s cry.
Connect me to the frail, silvery thread that links me to the humanity of my neighbor.
During this moment of silence, though there are horrors all around,
In spite of everything that directs me not, let the more loving one be–me.
Connect me with the calm of a desert valley after a surprise flash flood,
The rich pause between musical notes, or the serenity of a Jerusalem street on
Shabbat.