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by Rabbi Nathan Kamesar
I’ve never considered myself a poetry guy, which is strange, because: I love music — a well-written song lyric can stick with me for years; Jewish tradition is filled with poetry, from the ancient psalms to the piyutim, the hymns in our prayer books; and even sermons, when done well, are meant to have a sense of the poetic.
Still, I usually find that I have a difficult time following poetry and lose interest before too long.
But this week, when my wife shared an old episode of the Poetry Unbound podcast with me, hosted by Pádraig Ó Tuama, featuring a poem titled 2AM, and the Rabbinical Students Stand in Their Bathrobes, by Yehoshua November, I was intrigued.
I was intrigued because I’ve been a rabbinical student, and while I don’t own a bathrobe, it is not far fetched for me to imagine the contrast of the sacred and the mundane held in such stark relief. I am quite well-versed in it. In a sense, I live it every day
I was also intrigued because for me, contemporary Jewish literature of the sort I’m about to share is a reminder of the degree to which Judaism is an Etz Hayim, a Tree of Life, alive in each generation. Yes, we are profoundly reliant on the texts, and the rituals, and the rhythms passed down to us, from millennia ago, which connect the Jewish people within and across generations.
They are the roots that give us life — but in each season, new leaves and branches grow, new buds bloom; Judaism is equally reliant on the generations of Jews and their loved ones present in this room, to channel a Jewish spirit in new ways — imperfect ways, anything human hands touch always is, and yet unique: contributions that only each of us as individuals can make. So I’m heartened to share just one of many available entries into the ongoing, unfolding tree of life from this generation:
2AM, and the Rabbinical Students Stand in Their Bathrobes
by Yehoshua November
2AM, and the rabbinical students stand in their bathrobes
at the edge of the yeshiva parking lot, watching
the practiced motions of muscular firemen disembarking
from their engine. Soon, it will be determined
the youngest student in the building
pulled the basement alarm
after learning, over the dormitory pay phone,
his parents, back in Baltimore, intend to end
their nineteen year marriage before Passover.
The only one the rabbis have not accounted for
crouches in his closet behind a row of black sports coats.
And because the yeshiva caters to souls
but also bodies,
the early morning mysticism class
on why the Divine Presence cannot dwell
amongst those plagued by sadness
has been cancelled.
Let’s start with the most searing imagery in the poem, at least to me: a young boy —the youngest — pulling the fire alarm after learning his parents will be divorcing, his home, as he knows it, will be broken, some 19 years after it was created — surely encompassing his whole life, before the upcoming Passover holiday.
His being, we imagine, is so torn up, so confused, that, we presume, one instinctive way he has to release this internal pressure is to yank down on the fire alarm, releasing, as best he can, the noise, the concern, the distress he must feel in his soul.
This is the event that leads to the somewhat silly imagery with which the poem begins: it’s 2 am, and a bunch of rabbinical students are standing around the parking lot in their bathrobes, surely in something of a contrast to the firemen who are prepared for this moment. Bewildered rabbinical students, practiced firemen.
All of this mess, including the discovery of a young boy hiding in his closet behind a bunch of black sports coats, leads to the culminating decision to cancel tomorrow’s early morning mysticism class on why the Divine Presence cannot dwell amongst those plagued by sadness.
I’m sure you have a few questions, starting most importantly with, why would the yeshiva have ever offered that class in the first place? Why would there be a mysticism class on why the Divine Presence cannot dwell amongst those plagued by sadness? Haven’t we learned that Judaism has beautiful teachings like, ein davar yoter shalem milev shavur, there is nothing more whole than a broken heart?
Of course. Judaism has countless teachings on the relationships between God and humanity, for perhaps every experience one can imagine. And there is an element of Jewish mysticism which emphasizes the importance and the sacredness of joy. “Ivdu et Hashem b’simhah” it says in the Psalms, “serve God with simhah,” with happiness. And “bo l’fanav birnanah,” come before God with “r’nanah,” with joy.
Overcome the sadness that can withdraw you from life. Anchoring their teachings in a relationship with God, they cite the Baal Shem Tov, the mystical rabbi who teaches that we should channel joy flowing from the understanding and the faith that the sh’khinah, the divine presence, is within and watches over us, that we behold the creator, and the creator beholds us, experiencing joy in response.
But Judaism also recognizes the words of scripture, Kohelet, Ecclesiastes: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens.”
So that’s why the poem says, “because the yeshiva caters to souls but also bodies, the early morning mysticism class on why the Divine Presence cannot dwell amongst those plagued by sadness has been cancelled.”
Bodies because everybody is out there at 2:00 am, and no one wants to wake up for an early morning class after that, and souls, because the Rosh Yeshiva, the head of the Yeshiva, upon discovering that little boy, knows that this is not the time, not the season, to be emphasizing God’s desire to reside only where joy is found.
For this boy, this is the season to recognize the teaching that when the Jewish people went into exile, God went with them; that when God’s children cry, God cries with them; that, as it says in Isaiah: “God is close to the brokenhearted.”
The poem ends with:
Because the yeshiva caters to souls
but also bodies,
the early morning mysticism class
on why the Divine Presence cannot dwell
amongst those plagued by sadness
has been cancelled.
2AM, and the rabbinical students stand in their bathrobes. Every place, every moment, every person, has the capacity to teach us some Torah. May we find it anew in each generation.
