The daytime windows leap at me
When alone I enter the sanctuary.
Brilliant colors, vibrant and pure,
Lift and draw with their allure.
I play with the patterns, the colors intermingling.
Then the nature of their meaning sets off tingling.
Within the patterns and the hues gleaming
Are the lessons, my history, the meaning
Of the stories so often told
Of gentle prophets becoming bold.
None of them was great at birth,
Never knowing their own worth,
Growing great by greeting God
Accepting, though reluctantly, His plan
And spreading it throughout the land.
How glorious to be God's voice!
Was it only long ago that we had that choice?
Should we force ourselves to listen
Very hard so we won't miss him?
I think God talks to us through them,
Those common unusual stained glass men.
I climb through the windows to read the ideas,
To know again the prophecies, warnings, and fears
To relive the resolution and look for the solution
To the mystery of my history.
To find the lessons we should teach
From those men who had to preach.
Perhaps the beauty of the windows is enough.
I'm finding the climb through the windows very tough.
-Dorothy (Dotty) T. Jacobson Teacher, Advocate, Mentor, Mensch
One of the fun things about coming to a new congregation is wandering around the building and poking into all the nooks and crannies - whether it is the door by the patio that leads to the boiler room for the Educational wing, the choir loft and its scary ladder, or the so-called Harry Potter room under the stairs of the sanctuary. In my wandering through the social hall - looking at the wall of Ebgi prints, the many portraits of Rabbi Gordon, the ? Torah scroll, and the display case, I saw a lot of artwork by Berith Sholom congregants. Next to the door leading to the central staircase was this poem by Dotty Jacobson, which not only moved me, but also is a sermon all in itself.
I imagine Dotty sitting in this sanctuary, perhaps during a High HolyDay service, and looking up to these windows for inspiration. As we explored last week, the windows added at the Temple’s Centennial were a transitional moment. A way, within the structure of the congregation and its walls, to give new perspective. The windows were meant to be seen and contemplated. The images and words that were chosen with care and intent. That generation, and its designers, would have been delighted at Dotty’s words, rewarded and justified by the compulsion that she found in their message.
Dotty felt drawn to contemplate the prophets - not just their quotes - but what it must have been like to be compelled to speak, not on behalf of themselves, but inspired by the Divine. She imagined their humble beginnings, the call that they felt, their reluctance, and eventual acceptance. They had answers - from deep in our tradition that would address the challenges of today - and she yearned to crawl into the windows to find them.
Let us follow Dotty and take a step into those windows this evening. Let us wrestle not just with the pictures and the text, but with the intent of how these words can have meaning in our own life, in our own conduct.
Let us start with the personal. Moses’ window is an invitation. ויאמר יהוה אל משה לאמר are the most common words to open a portion or paragraph of the books of Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy - “And God spoke to Moses, saying:” There is no command, but rather an invitation to enter into relationship. Moses passes on the Divine idea and we are invited to step forward. The artwork on the right is Mount Sinai, where we and our ancestors (as we will read in the morning) entered into covenant with God. The art on the left is the burning bush, which our Sages taught was always burning, waiting for Moses to notice. Only when he was able to answer the call, to say, “Hineini - here I am” did the partnership and the work of Exodus begin. We are each called personally to define our partnership with the Divine; it is up to each one of us to interpret and act on the words that have been shared continually, generation after generation.
Jeremiah’s window comes to us from a time of deep trauma - the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem and the dislocation of exile. Jeremiah offers two messages - the first is the warning about the upcoming Divine punishment - the chains on the right-hand window. Yet, once the exile begins, Jeremiah offers a nechemta - a message of comfort. He buys a vineyard to show that he is putting his resources on the line that there will be a return; that there is hope. The scroll and pen on the left could be his prophecy, or the deed to that vineyard. The message is both communal and personal - whether we are in despair about events around us, or our own lives. רְפָאֵנִי יְהֹוָה וְאֵרָפֵא הוֹשִׁיעֵנִי וְאִוָּשֵׁעָה (Jer.17:14) - Heal me, Adonai, and I will be healed; Save me, and I will be saved.” Sometimes, as much as we wish to heal ourselves, to be the source of our own salvation, we need a little more. Jeremiah offers that God can be that extra bit of strength to carry us through a difficult time.
From the personal, we move to our surroundings. How do we imagine the community in which we live, and what is our responsibility to those around us? Amos, one of the fiery prophets of the northern kingdom of Israel, gives a vision of that ideal society - through a concrete metaphor of tools. On the left are the scales of justice. We think of these more often as a symbol and forget that for our electronically deprived ancestors that the scale was a practical item. Equality was measured not in digits, but by adding or subtracting amounts to reach a known weight, which we are repeatedly admonished (and will read tomorrow afternoon) to keep honestly. The plumb line is a partnership with creation: we use gravity to determine what is straight (pardon the expression) and to make sure that our foundations will support what we build upon them. The final tool is a trowel - a reminder that we sometimes need to smooth things over, that our gentle hands are needed to surface the rough edges. But, despite the precise measurement of our tools, the text introduces chaos. וְיִגַּ֥ל כַּמַּ֖יִם מִשְׁפָּ֑ט (Amos 5:24). Let justice surge in like a wave - a wave which knocks over the sandcastles we often claim to be the right way.
There is a cry that democracy is dead. That if we ever had a just society, partisan division and tribalism has killed civic spirit. The bones of the nation imagined by our founding parents are scattered around us. Ezekiel was a prophet of the exile. Our Jewish ancestors had seen their sovereignty destroyed and feared the loss of their national identity. God took the prophet to a valley filled with bones and asked, “הֲתִֽחְיֶ֖ינָה הָעֲצָמ֣וֹת הָאֵ֑לֶּה (Ezek. 37:3)- Can life return to these bones?” Cagily, Ezekiel answered that only God could know, but God tells the prophet that he needs to speak to the bones; he needs to prophesy. And then, they knit together, and arose. We are called, if not as prophets, than as descendants of prophets, to share these words of inspiration and vision. Our responsibility is not only to judge and to build our just society, but also to speak out, to prophesy. The light of the menorah on the left panel is not just a reminder of the Temple, but an actual light to guide our path.
From our community, we look to the world. What does it mean to be a chosen people - chosen not to be separate, but to engage? Isaiah, the prophet who will challenge us tomorrow morning to see our fast not as performative but as an instigation to act, also knew a world torn apart by world and strife. Beating a sword into a plowshare (as seen on the left) is not a metaphor, but an act of unilateral disarmament, a decision - from strength - to make peace rather than war. The image to the right and the text are וְגָ֤ר זְאֵב֙ עִם־כֶּ֔בֶשׂ (Isa. 11:6) the wolf lying down with the lamb. The power of this image is not the trust of the prey, but the restraint of the predator. It is easy to sue for peace when we are weak; it is an act of justice to do so when having the upper hand.
Finally, we come to the window of Micah. The images reflect the text and are in alignment: וְיָשְׁב֗וּ אִ֣ישׁ תַּ֧חַת גַּפְנ֛וֹ וְתַ֥חַת תְּאֵנָת֖וֹ (Micah 4:4) - and each person shall dwell under their own vine and their own fig tree. The image is that of a lack of want, of self-sufficiency. Each person will have their source of food and drink, no poverty or want. Though our windows could only fit so many words, we can still add the next line, “וְאֵ֣ין מַחֲרִ֑יד - and they will not be caused to fear.” Fear drives so much in our world and our politics - beginning with a fear that we will not have enough, moving to the fear that someone else will take what we have - a fear that leads us to close our doors, mistrust others, horde to ourselves more than we need. If there was no fear, if everyone had enough for their own, then we can imagine a world of peace.
I think God talks to us through them,
Those common unusual stained glass men.
I climb through the windows to read the ideas,
To know again the prophecies, warnings, and fears
To relive the resolution and look for the solution
To the mystery of my history.
To find the lessons we should teach
From those men who had to preach.
Perhaps the beauty of the windows is enough.
I'm finding the climb through the windows very tough.
On Kol Nidrei, we stand a moment of transition. We have spent the time to reflect on who we are and we are ready to imagine who we could be. We look up and take in the words illustrated by our windows. Are we ready to answer the call? As difficult as it may be to climb through the windows, we can only imagine what is awaiting us on the other side. We are filled with trepidation, and perhaps a little hope. Let us be prophets, let us be led by prophesy.
In this new year for Congregation Berith Sholom, in this new year for our Troy community, our country, and our world, and in this new year for ourselves, may we find the courage to live by our ideals, and may we thereby write ourselves for a good year.
Shanah tovah tichateimu.
167 Third Street
Troy, NY
12180
@2021 Congregation Berith Sholom. All Rights Reserved.