Holding on to Sorrow and Hope

The Diameter of the Bomb

by Yehuda Amichai

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters

and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,

with four dead and eleven wounded.

And around these in a larger circle

of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered

and one graveyard. But the young woman

who was buried in the city she came from,

at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,

enlarges the circle considerably,

and the solitary man mourning her death

at the distant shores of a country far across the sea

includes the entire world in the circle.

And I won’t even mention the crying of orphans

that reaches up to the throne of God and

beyond, making

a circle with no end and no God.

I was preparing to celebrate Yom Ha’atzma’ut, the 65^th anniversary of Israel’s independence, tonight, April 15. The day had started off beautifully. The 50-degree temperature and overcast skies would be perfect for the runners. Brian and I had tickets to the Red Sox game, an 11 a.m. Boston tradition on Patriot’s Day. The game was exciting and close and ended with a walk-off double after the Tampa Bay Rays had tied the score, 2-2, in the top of the ninth. After staying to hear “Dirty Water” and “Tessie,” our Red Sox anthems, we left Fenway Park for lunch and a leisurely stroll down Brookline Ave. to our parked car.

On the way, ambulance sirens broke the air. It seemed strange to have so many, one after another. We began to notice how many different kinds of ambulances, coming from different directions. It wasn’t until we reached the car that we learned the horrifying news of two bombs that exploded at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.

At home for the rest of the afternoon, we sat before the tv, seeking information. In the meantime, the phone rang, the emails arrived and Facebook filled up with notices: we’re home, we’re safe, or, we’re praying for you in Boston.

What is remarkable about being human is that we have the capacity to hold many things in our minds at once. We can love more than one person at the same time, as parents learn to expand their hearts to add yet another.. We can think rationally and yet feel contradictory emotions at the same time. We can feel sorrow yet enjoy the beauty of the spring blossoms. We can focus on our personal life and care about the world at the same time. Even more remarkable, is that we are capable of holding paradox, feeling sadness in one realm and joy in another at one and the same time.

Our religious tradition acknowledges this complexity. In the Jewish wedding ceremony, at the height of the joy we break a glass. That shattered glass reminds us of the sorrow in the world. It is an affirmation that we can, indeed, hold sorrow and joy simultaneously.

Our hearts are torn apart by the senseless act of hate and cruelty that took place at the finish line of the Boston Marathon today. No matter who did this, I have no other words to describe what took place, other than “senseless,” “hate” and “cruelty.”

And, somehow we also commemorate the existence of the state of Israel, and the contributions it has made to the Jewish people and to the world. Whatever criticism I might have on any other day, on this day, I focus on my gratitude for this 65-years young nation, where my people have come home.

Tonight, we gathered in our congregation to feel the rising emotions of this tragic day for Boston. Fear and sorrow, shock and horror, anxiety and helplessness filled the room. We read Amichai’s poem, which connects our own tragic attack on ordinary people with that of the Israeli poet and his community’s suffering. And we also ended by singing Hatikvah, Israel’s anthem, a statement of hope for the future.

Who knows what we will learn tomorrow, whose names will appear among the dead and injured, what sacrifices were made by first responders, what acts of kindness strangers offered. Who knows how this noble tradition of the Boston Marathon will be changed, and how Patriot’s Day will forever carry the awful memory of death and devastation. And despite the blood spilled, the spring flowers will brighten our path and the trees will continue to bud and flower. For now, we join together in prayer for healing, for comfort, for justice, and above all, for love and hope to carry us through.

As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote:

I would say, let the young people remember

That there is a meaning beyond absurdity.

Let them be sure that every little deed counts,

That every word has power,

And that we can, everyone, do our share to redeem the world

In spite of all the absurdities and all of the frustrations and

disappointments

And above all, remember that the meaning of life is to build

A life as if it were a work of art.

You’re not a machine, and you are young.

Start working on this great work of art called your own existence.

[For those seeking advice on how to talk about this tragedy with young children, I recommend this link from Boston Children’s Hospital:

http://childrenshospitalblog.org/talking-to-children-after-tragedy/]