Returning to Tragedy

Reflecting five years later, from Pittsburgh Shooting to Crisis in Israel

It is hard to imagine that it has been five years since the synagogue shooting in Pittsburgh on October 27th, 2018. It is strange to live in a different city from the community I used to serve.

I have changed. I have grown. Five years feels like a long time and a blink of an eye.

The time serving in the acute weeks following the shooting has stayed with me, though my memories of that time bring fewer feelings of adrenaline burning in my chest and filling my mouth with bitter tastes than they used to. The lessons have been hard-won and deeply felt.

On and after our Sunday wedding on October 28th, the day after the Shooting, a powerfully joyous affair with the tragic backdrop of the shooting of the previous day, we attempted to remain in that happy mental place for as long as we could.

We told ourselves, “The community and its needs will be there when we get back. We can take time now. We can be present with our family and friends. It has to be ok to do that.”

Yet, it wasn't easy to do. My mind drifted to the people, wondering how they were doing. I thought of my colleagues holding up the soul of the community. Thinking of the families most immediately affected. Holding those two truths, joy and sorrow, was the core lesson of that moment and has remained so.

As Tuesday afternoon approached and we headed to the airport for our flight, we allowed ourselves to get into “return to Pittsburgh mode.” We sat on the airport carpet, made plans, and mentally prepared ourselves. We emailed trauma experts for advice and began to outline our plans.

Hearts in our throats, we flew home. We stumbled into bed at 1 am, slept a few hours, and woke up to go to minyan at 7:30 am. I knew that for the following almost two weeks, I would be the spiritual leader of our community.

Though not my role, it became my responsibility.

While our congregation was not among the congregations who were attacked, we were the natural gathering place afterward. Our people were intertwined. We hosted our shared daily minyan, and we shared members. In that community, there was tremendous overlap. We would host the three congregations on Friday night and a shared service on Saturday morning.

As I got dressed that morning, I thought about what I would need to do.

What I knew was our people would need to see stability and assurance. They would need to see the “capital R” rabbi in front of them.

In times of crisis, we look to our leaders to provide us with a sense of security. In our case, for clergy, this is a sense of emotional and spiritual security.

This does not mean the answer is “everything is alright” or “this was God’s plan,” but a sense that we are traveling it together with a guide to help navigate the murky waters of unknowing.

When I walked into synagogue Wednesday morning, I wore a suit and tie. The formality represented spiritual security. It was the attire of a trauma tour guide that morning.

As the morning minyan came to an end, I stood before the gathered people. Fifty or so expectant faces looked at me. I felt the constriction of my toes in my dress shoes and my shoulders pressing into my suit jacket.

In that split second, before I opened my mouth, I thought to myself, what right do I have to speak? What kind of leader am I? I wasn’t even here! What could I possibly say that they would want to hear?

I took a deep breath.

I realized that leadership, especially rabbinic leadership, is about trust and relationships.

I knew these people.

It was not just the suit and tie but the hundreds of conversations I had with the people in front of me. It was not the answers I would give but the ear I would lend, my heart I would open.

The fact that I wasn’t there that weekend didn’t matter. I couldn’t control that. These were still my people.

My bones refilled with courage. I looked down at the Wednesday Psalm we had just recited and reinforced the Torah I knew to be true at that moment.

I don’t remember what I said exactly, but it was something like this:

The Psalm speaks of how the Jewish people have suffered. How we might wish for God to bring punishment and justice to the wicked. How, in the end, God will not abandon God’s people.

It can feel like we are alone, but we are not alone. We are here with each other and with the Divine. The Psalm says, “Shall the One who implants the ear not hear, the One who forms the eye not see?”

God sees our pain, our crying out. God is with us. We are with each other.

How can we be there for each other? Lend one another your ear. Be present with one another. Help each other, lean on your neighbor’s shoulder.

The Psalm says, “When I am filled with anxious thoughts, Your assurance soothes my soul.”

Let us soothe one another’s souls.

This would become my practice during those two weeks. I would draw out the lesson my people needed from the daily Psalm. The beauty of Torah is how much is tucked in it.

As the service ended, I gave hugs, shared smiles, and understanding nods.

We were not okay, but together, we would find a way.

Now, five years later, it feels like we find ourselves experiencing another communal tragedy. It is not the same, but the emotions feel resonant.

Our hearts are broken. Our community is in grief. And yet, our shoulders offered to each other for our people to cry on.

For me, as I sit at the furthest reaches of the West, far away from the immediacy of the situation, it is crucial to recognize that we do not know or understand what it feels like in Israel. We should seek to listen to the people and what they need.

Just like those outside of Pittsburgh felt impacted by the Shooting, they did not know what we experienced or how we felt. Not really. We are all present in the concentric circles of trauma. This moment, in 2023, feels like this is happening to all of us, as I imagine it felt for many outside of Pittsburgh five years ago.

What we can do is hold each other soul to soul, wherever we find ourselves.

For those in leadership, it feels as if we need to have all of the answers.

We don’t. We cannot. As our hearts sit in our chests, fearful of the days to come, there are few clear answers. 

We don’t know how the community will be changed.
We don’t know how each of us will react over time.
We don’t know how this will alter our outlook.
We don’t know how this will impact our relationships.

Things will be different. That is one of the only things we can be sure of.

If I were to advise myself five years ago with all that I know now, I would say:

Be patient and understanding with others and yourself. Stay focused on what you can do to help, and keep an eye on your own heart. Find others who understand and trust them most. Open your heart wide despite the vulnerability.

And know that it will hurt, a lot, for a long time. That people won’t truly understand, despite their words.

More than anything, understand that this moment will change the trajectory of your life and your soul. It will take time to unravel and you won’t know how it will turn out.

I am not the same person I was before that day five years ago. The trajectory of my life was altered that day. My relationships with people, places, God, and Torah are different.

This moment is trajectory-changing, too, for all of us.

We will not be the same, and it will take time to uncover how we will change.

We must prepare ourselves for the long journey.