Shabbat, December 20th

Shabbat morning: I sit in a magnificent synagogue, its architecture breathtaking. I am deeply moved by the chazzan, Menachem – not yet thirty – who seamlessly weaves classical chazzanut with Shlomo Carlebach melodies. I tell him that Shlomo, were he alive, would be celebrating his 100th birthday. This Chanukah, his Mimkomcha seemed to reach the heavens.

Struggling these days with my own voice, I wonder whether I will be heard when I am honored to speak before Mussaf. But when I begin, I feel almost otherworldly. With each word, I hold Bondi Beach in my mind. I speak of Bereishit as the story of broken families – and of how, by the end of the Yosef narrative, the family becomes whole. Only then does Bereishit end and Shemot begin, teaching us that the best model of nation is family.

Toward the end, I recount the singing of Od Avinu Chai at the funeral of Boris and Sofia. I ask everyone to stand. Together, we sing: Od Avinu Chai.

After Shabbat lunch at the Elton’s, we walk to St. Vincent’s Hospital.

There we meet Meir, the father of Geffen – the young man who chased the shooter alongside Ahmed and was seriously injured. Geffen cannot speak. But as we sing and pray at his bedside, he opens his eyes, especially when we recite Shema Yisrael together.

We meet Shimon, the father of Elon, also gravely injured. Shimon left Israel forty years ago and now lives in Australia. His son, too, needs God’s great help. Standing around his bed, we hold hands, offering tefillot and songs of healing.

From there we try to see Yaakov. He is too broken to see us, his brother Rachmiel tells us. Rachmiel lives in Tel Aviv but flew in immediately. Their tragedy is beyond description. Yaakov had been with his parents. His father, Boris – Baruch – was among the first murdered. Just yesterday, he was laid to rest, and Yaakov could not be there.

We sit with Rachmiel for nearly two hours. It is Shabbat, yet it is a deep shiva visit. A son of the murdered. A brother of the injured. So many layers of pain.

As Rachmiel speaks about his father – his stepfather – he offers thanks for the man who took him in at the age of nine. He breaks down, sharing stories of goodness, of love. We feel his pain in our bones.

After Shabbat, we return to Bondi Beach.

Several hundred Bnei Akiva youth stand in circles, singing shirei deveikut. Rabbi Selwyn Franklin’s son recognizes me and asks if I would say a few words.

I call out: “HaMavdil bein kodesh le’chol, bein or la’choshech.” This field, just one week ago, was a place of choshech – of darkness. And now, looking into the eyes of each and every one of you, you respond with holy light. My voice cracks as I quote Yechezkel, who, upon seeing the destruction of the Temple, cries out, Avdah tikvateinu – our hope is lost. With each of you – we can declare: Od lo avdah tikvateinu. Our hope is not lost. Hatikvah bat shnot alpayim.

Spontaneously, everyone rises. Together, we sing Hatikvah.

Sunday, December 21st

Sunday morning: I was moved to tears this morning at Bondi, where a thousand people – Jews and many who were not of the Jewish faith – gathered together at a place where God’s name had been desecrated, and instead sanctified it.

Yes, there is great evil in the world – far too much of it, including here in Australia. But to witness so many beautiful souls come together – people of all denominations, all faiths, agnostics and atheists – united by a shared desire to respond with goodness and kindness, was profoundly moving.

I was especially touched by Rabbanit Judith Levitan, who received semikha from Yeshivat Maharat. She spoke softly, spiritually, rooted in faith – weaving together a soulful message as delicate tapestry. Rabbanit Judith spoke of our tradition of shiva, the seven days of mourning, explaining it in a way that allowed everyone present to understand its meaning: how shiva is a time when mourners sit and are comforted by visitors who come to tell stories, to share memories, to reflect.

Then Rabbanit Judith turned to the crowd and said: Here you are, visiting our collective shiva.

She concluded by reminding us that at the end of shiva, our tradition calls upon mourners to walk around the block – to move from the anguished question of why to the essential question of what now? How do we respond?

And in that moment it struck me deeply to witness an Orthodox woman rabbi, a true mekadeshet Shem Shamayim, sanctifying God’s name so powerfully. I offer thanksgiving to God for allowing me to experience this moment – this moment of deep pain and suffering, and at the same time, a moment of great hope. I say to Rabbanit Judith, with humility and gratitude: thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

May Rabbanit Judith be well. May her family be blessed. May all of Am Yisrael be blessed – ken yehi ratzon.

Sunday Afternoon: As we leave the Sunday morning vigil, we meet Harris – a most lovely man who had just finished giving a tour of the Bondi site to several visitors. He told us that he had attended the event but had left early. Quietly, he showed us where different moments had unfolded, pointing out where things had stood, indicating the exact spot where Rabbi Eli had been standing. Seeing it there, in place, was chilling.

We attend lunch at Rabbanit Judith’s home. She and her husband, Tommy, host close family members. Rabbanit Judith shares a d’var Torah, reminding us that in the midst of every tragedy there is hope – and even the challenge to rediscover joy. We must learn from the past, grieve for the lost, and still find a way to move forward.

I thought of that beautiful verse from Psalms: “Those who sow with tears will reap with joy.” In Hasidic literature, the punctuation shifts: “Those who sow with joy and tears.” It is the Yehuda Amichai idea – that life’s experiences cannot always be compartmentalized; they synthesize. While it is true there is a time for war and a time for love, it is also true that within love there can be war, and even in war, love.

From there, we travel to a kumzitz arranged by Rabbanit Adina Roth, another extraordinary musmechet of Yeshivat Maharat. Students and parents gather with Rabbi Amitai and Rabbi Mike. Together, we do what we can to comfort and to teach. The message, carried in word and song: “The whole world may be a very narrow bridge, but the main thing is not to be afraid.”

The students seem riveted and deeply engaged as Amitai and Mike share their thoughts. And while Rabbanit Adina herself is clearly shaken by what has occurred, I pray that she, too, finds some solace in the togetherness she created that afternoon.

Sunday Evening: We join many thousands – perhaps tens of thousands – for the eighth candle lighting of Hanukkah at Bondi. Chabad has arranged an impressive program, with speakers and politicians. All are applauded except Prime Minister Albanese, who is booed. I join in the booing. Some around me say it feels inappropriate to be disrespectful, but I feel otherwise. Rallies are not only about those who speak; they are also about how the crowd reacts. And as long as the crowd is peaceful, it is important for politicians to hear what people are feeling.

What touched me most was the melody of Menachem, the Chazzan at the Great Synagogue – as he intoned Ani Ma’amin, Ani Ma’amin b’emunah shleimah. In spite of everything, I still believe. The emotional peak came when the crowd, led by a singer on stage, sang what is considered the unofficial Australian anthem, Waltzing Matilda. People held up their lit phones, waving them side to side. Darkness had fallen. It felt as if the earth itself was crying, and in the heat of the evening, tears flowed freely. It was an otherworldly moment.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)