There’s
a TV series that came out a few years ago in Israel called Serugim. It deals with a group of 30-somethings
who grew up modern orthodox and who continue to practice Judaism
traditionally.
They
are in many ways integrated into modern contemporary life and culture. They work as physicians and accountants
and they watch Monty Python movies and Seinfeld.
But
the essential dramatic element is that, in a community where most people are
married by that age, they are all single.
One
is the daughter of a rabbi, who is dating a secular archaeology professor. Another is pining after a doctor who
has no interest in her.
And
there’s a character named Amir who is divorced from his wife, who teaches in a
girls’ high school and is trying to date, bearing the stigma that divorce
sometimes carries in that community.
I
want to just describe one scene involving Amir that I found very poignant. At one point, during a Shabbat service,
for reasons I won’t go into, he loses his yarmulke. He borrows one from an older gentleman that is not the style
he usually wears. He usually wears
a small crocheted colored yarmulke but he ends up taking a large white yarmulke
typically worn by followers of certain charismatic rabbis.
He’s
walking in a park Shabbat afternoon and comes upon a group of guys sitting and
singing on a blanket together, all wearing the same white yarmulke that he’s
now wearing. (There’s a lot of
humor in the show, by the way.)
They
invite him over – come here, brother, join us! He hesitates at first and then he comes over. And he starts to sing with them,
soulful, mystical nigunim – songs
without words.
At
one point they ask him to share one of his own melodies. He hesitates and then he starts. He’s not the greatest singer in the
world. But while he’s singing, he
starts to cry. And he’s
crying while he’s singing, and the men around him join him in his sad melody as
the camera fades into another scene.
There
he is, surrounded by total strangers, and somehow the pathos of his life is
released and bursts forth.
This
morning I want to say a word about the power of the cry when it’s released and
when it’s held back.
