By Rabbi Jodie Gordon / Hevreh of Southern Berkshire

How many of us remember the story Oh the Places You’ll Go, by Dr. Seuss?

Lately, it feels like we’re living in that storied “waiting place”:

Waiting for a train to go

or a bus to come, or a plane to go

or the mail to come, or the rain to go

or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow

or the waiting around for a Yes or No

or waiting for their hair to grow.

Everyone is just waiting.

 

Waiting for the fish to bite

or waiting for the wind to fly a kite

or waiting around for Friday night

or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake

or a pot to boil, or a Better Break

or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants

or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.

Everyone is just waiting.

Everyone is just waiting. But, I can’t help but feel that the real thing that I am waiting for is a “day after,” which has not yet come. Just one year ago, I had the opportunity to attend the annual convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR), the official body of the Reform rabbinate. The event took place in March 2024, just months after October 7, 2023. During the convention, I had the opportunity to hear Rabbi Oded Mazor speak. Rabbi Mazor serves as the senior rabbi of Kehillat Kol Haneshama, the largest Reform congregation in Jerusalem. He was invited to address his rabbinic peers, and to reflect upon the idea of the “day after” in Israel, and on life in Israel during the war.

In his powerful and emotional remarks, Rabbi Mazor shared vignettes of four individuals in his extended community, and what hayom acharei (“the day after”) would look like for each of them. Two of them stand out to me still. First, Nati, whose home is on Kibbutz Or Haner, just a few kilometers from the Gaza border. For Nati, Rabbi Mazor reflected “What does היום אחרי (hayom acharei, the day after) mean, when you return to your kibbutz, just a few kilometers from Gaza, and the kids go to school, and some of their friends are not there anymore and will never be? And some of their friends will be there, but still are someplace else around Israel and not yet allowed to come back. What it meant for Nati: Returning home is to go pick the lemons from the lemon tree in their yard. היום אחרי (hayom acharei, the day after) will be to know that this lemon tree will give lemons again next year, as well.”

Perhaps the most powerful story Rabbi Mazor told was of Kol Haneshama’s congregational manager, Anna, whose niece Karina Ariev was one of the five tatspitanyot (female observers) who had been kidnapped from the base at Nahal Oz and held hostage. He shared, “When Anna is thinking about היום אחרי (hayom acharei, the day after), there is no יום אחרי (yom acharei, day after) without Karina coming home. Karina’s parents, Anna’s aunt and uncle, told her that very explicitly: If she doesn’t come home, there is no day after.”

And now here we are, a year later, and as I get ready to travel to Chicago for this year’s CCAR convention, I can’t help but reflect on the meaning of a “day after.” I don’t know how Nati and his family are doing a year later on Kibbutz Or Haner, but Karina Ariev has come home. Over the course of the past two months, I have been rapt with attention to the homecoming of the hostages released during the first phase of the ceasefire. I have been so moved by the symbols of strength and resilience: seeing Emily Damari raise her injured hand in strength, and the heart that Liri Albag made with her fingers. Each emotional family reunion felt redemptive. Still, all of it has been tempered by the excruciating heartbreak of seeing many other hostages return to learn of the deaths of their loved ones, forever physically and emotionally scarred by their cruel captivity. The initial joy of the return of the hostages took a decidedly darker emotional turn, as we finally learned the fate of Shiri Bibas and her two young children, Ariel and Kfir. The joyful family reunions turned to mournful funeral processions for not only Shiri, Ariel and Kfir Bibas, but for Oded Lifshitz, Itzhak Elgarat; Tsachi Idan, Ohad Yahalomi, and Shlomo Mantzur.

At the time of writing this reflection, the fate of the remaining hostages remains unclear, and the ongoing suffering in Gaza and in Israel is only more deeply entrenched. I think back on the last 16 months, and my heart breaks when I consider the cumulative human suffering.

This cannot possibly be the “day after.” The first phase of the ceasefire has brought much to be grateful for, and still leaves so much more to worry about, and to continue to fight for. There has to be more; something better for ourselves, for our children, and for humanity. My faith in humanity and my faith in Am Yisrael lead me to understand this moment we are living in as a “twilight time” – a time that is not still day, and is not yet night. Twilight is such a mystical time of day, one that entranced the ancients, and captured the curiosity of our sages. In Hebrew we call this time “bein hashmashot” – literally, the time “between the suns.” This “time between the suns” is equally dusky and mysterious as it also “neither here nor there.” The sages were so perplexed and moved by the beauty and mystery of twilight – they didn’t quite know what to do with it. They saw twilight as a period of uncertainty. Is it still day? Is it already night? A little bit of both? Therefore, the Sages taught, we were obligated to the expectations of both day and night in that twilight space of in-between.

It feels to me like Am Yisrael – the people of Israel, connected by bonds of history and relationship both in Israel and around the world, are now living “bein hashmashot.” We are not yet in the “day after”, and we are no longer exactly where we were just a few months ago. If we apply the wisdom of the sages to this moment, then we can see ourselves as doubly obligated. First, to continue to cultivate hope, to pray, and most important, to work and advocate tirelessly until every hostage has been brought home and we can begin to rebuild. Secondly, to offer gratitude for what has changed, and for the sake of those who have returned, to begin living in ways that reflect our commitment to healing, rehabilitation, and peace.

There is a song by Israeli artist Yagel Oshri that came out in August 2023, which took on particular significance after the start of the war. The song, called Latzet M’dikaon (“Getting Out of Depression”) includes the refrain: 

Od yavo yamim tovim, ani mav’teach.

Od yavo yamim tovim…

More good days will come, I promise

More good days will come.

Even as we sit bein hashmashot, this is my deepest hope and prayer: that we will see better days ahead, for Am Yisrael and for all humanity.

Rabbi Jodie Gordon is the spiritual leader of Hevreh of Southern Berkshire in Great Barrington.