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I am always struck by the difficult mixture of emotions in this service. We go from the celebration and joy of Hallel, to the ultimate communal declaration in celebrating the giving of Torah. Then almost immediately, the mood shifts and we are in the midst of our grief and the grief of others sitting near us, as we remember our loved ones. Each of the 3 pilgrimage festivals pose the same problem—grief planted in the midst of joy. Our Sages created an odd juxtaposition—asking us to rejoice in the fertility of the land while we cry for those we have lost.What is even more striking is that while we are grieving collectively, we must not mourn as individuals. That is, we are not permitted to sit shiva. And if we are in shloshim, the onset of the festival ends our shloshim period.The Mishnah tells us that if one of the major Jewish festivals begins while we are in the shiva period, we are supposed to put aside shiva and join with the community in celebrating the festival. We go outside to sit in a sukkah; we gather with family and friends at a Passover seder; we take part in a leil tikkun—night of study—for Shavuot. And for all three, we come to the synagogue for a festival service.This is a surprising requirement—inconsiderate, even! How can we be expected to put aside our grief and go celebrate?! How can Jewish law command us to set aside our feelings for the sake of going through the motions of a ritual?The Gemara, the commentary on the Mishna, explains the reason for this ruling: “aseh d’rabim – a positive mitzvah incumbent on the community” overrides “aseh d’yachid – a positive mitzvah incumbent on the individual” [Moed Katan 14b]. In other words, an individual’s duty to mourn for a close relative is superseded by our collective duty to celebrate the festivals. Or, to put it another way, Jewish law wants to lift us, as mourners, out of our own personal realities so that we can experience, with others, a story that is larger and deeper than ourselves: the drama of the Jewish people’s journey through history.At Shavuot, I can’t help but think of the journey of Naomi, together with her devoted daughter-in-law, Ruth. Having left her home town, Bethlehem, because of famine (ironically, Beit Lechem—the house of bread had none), Naomi and her husband venture out to the land of Moab. There, he dies, and shortly thereafter, Naomi’s two sons die as well, leaving no heirs. Naomi who had been near starvation for food, is now starving for family as well. Though she is low and immersed in self-pity, Ruth remains devoted to her. She will not let her starve. Ruth, too, is mourning the loss of her husband, and so the two women cling to one another.After Ruth delivers her passionate speech of devotion to her mother-in-law, the text reads, “va-teilachnah shteichem” “the two of them went on.” They return to Bethlehem. Naomi is bitter and bereaved and so she tells the women around her, “Do not call me Naomi (which means pleasantness) but call me Mara (which means bitter.) Interesting—that her instinct is to go back to her people, even though she does not want to engage with them. She pushes them away from her, even while she draws near to them. But “teilachnah shteichem” –they went on.I think that’s all we ever can do. Just keep going. Even in the midst of grief and loneliness, the Book of Ruth tells us: keep going. And the rest of the story tells us where to head—back to our people. Jewish tradition, through the mourning and grieving rituals, tells us the same thing. Go back to our people. Say kaddish with the community—even in the first week of loss—and perhaps even for the first 11 months. Just keep going. Where? Home to our people.Why? Because our people, our community, knows how to surround those in pain with love. We will not be pushed away. Like Ruth, we stay—quietly, gently helping to be a constant presence in each other’s lives. Naomi and Ruth find themselves in Bethlehem during the barley harvest. The harvest has begun, and with it comes a promise: those who are impoverished and hungry will be fed; those who are empty will be filled. It is gleaning time. Ruth gleans with the other women in the field and finds that she is not gleaning in just anyone’s field—but in the field of Boaz (whose name means “strength within”), a family member who has the power to redeem Ruth and to produce an heir for Naomi. And he does. More powerful and beautiful than the romance between Ruth and Boaz is the gradual restoration of Naomi. She is a woman rescued from loneliness, isolation and apathy; given back her sense of purpose in life, awakened to hope. Naomi rejoices at the new life that she has been given. Coming back to her people has given her hope for the future, has comforted her bitterness and has given meaning to her life once again. Through their joy, our text tells us, they ensure that “the name of the deceased not disappear.” (4:10) Their good fortune and bright future is the natural outcome of their process—just keep going; where? Home. Home to our people. So, my friends, welcome home. We are not sitting shiva today. Our shloshim is lifted. And together we rejoice in the festival. But make no mistake: It is not that halacha requires us to deny our natural feelings and to put on a happy face for the festival, but something else entirely. Jewish tradition believes that the festivals have something to say to the mourner. By sharing these days with the community; by opening our hearts to what the festivals can teach; by seeing ourselves as participants in the core Jewish journey from degradation to dignity, we receive strength to guide us on our own journeys out of grief and loss to the new life that will be ours.We find our small and personal stories in the great story of our people. And so I close with the words of Abraham our father, who spoke them long ago to Sarah, the wife he loved dearly until the day she died. He told her once, while they were still together, “chayta nafshi biglaleich” – which means, “I will remain alive thanks to you” or “Because of you, I will survive.” (Gen. 12:13) So may each of us, in the quiet space of memory, summon the beloved faces of those who, with their lives, taught us that life is a gift and life is good. So may we say to the ones we loved these words of gratitude and affirmation: “Chayta nafshi biglaleich. I will remain alive, thanks to you. Because of you, I will survive.”Shavuot comes to us today to tell us: keep going. Go home. Go home to your people; be with community; for it is through the presence and love of family and friends, that our bitterness can be turned to sweetness once more. ................
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