It was wonderful to welcome our Gesher students back to Sunday morning learning. Highlights of this morning included i-pad
video commentaries on mishnayot of
the students’ choice; a beautiful dedication ceremony in which our school
community affixed mezzuzot at an
appropriate height for little people and wheelchairs, a discussion of Jewish
death rituals and some learning in preparation for Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Memorial day which will be observed on April
11 at Temple Beth Am.) The following stories provided a spring board for the solemn tasks of remembering...
So
picture an eleven-year-old child looking around his room, knowing his life is
about to be destroyed: what should he
take? And he was frozen in the dilemma
of the choice. And so he made himself
two shoeboxes. In one shoebox he put pictures of his family, he put some poetry
he had written, he put a postcard from a girl—his treasures, his autobiography
in things. And in the other he put an
extra pair of shoes and some underwear and a hankie and a knife and a
watch. And I think he probably put in a
toothbrush. And he came home from school
one day and he was told, “Now! Run!” And he ran in and grabbed the shoebox. And they left.
When
they stopped again, he looked into the box, and he had taken the wrong one.
·
WHICH SHOEBOX HAD HE TAKEN?
·
What is the value/meaning of this shoebox? What is the value/meaning of the other
shoebox?
·
WHY WAS THIS THE WRONG SHOEBOX?
He
had the hankie and the shoes and the watch.
And
he thought, what did I want this box for?
What did I want the other box for?
What did the other box mean—to anybody?
And he said, “It was as though I were standing at the edge of the sea,
and I knew I would be pushed into the sea with my box, and the only thing that
mattered was that I not sink with the box.
It was as if I would try to throw the box back onto the shore, and maybe
someone would catch it.”
The Shoebox, Because G-d Loves Stories
Walking through
the streets of Bremen in the 1930’s, anyone could easily see sign of the rising
tide of hatred that was sweeping Germany.
Everywhere there were soldiers in brown uniforms, members of the new
National Socialist (NAZI) Party.
Swastikas were painted on walls, and soldiers wore them on their
sleeves. Mischievous children painted them on German synagogues. Teenagers in much hated Hitler Youth Brigades
passed by, marching in the famous goose step, kicking their legs up stiffly as
they walked.
One gray
afternoon, a rabbi walked sadly through the city, where everything was rapidly
changing for the worse. He was filled
with sorrow at what he thought might lie ahead.
He hoped that the young generation would turn away from the Nazi
movement that was taking over the country.
In an open field, he saw two young men dressed in the dreaded brown uniforms. The rabbi could see the cruel mischief in
their eyes as they approached. One of
them had his hands cupped, as if he were holding a precious thing that was
twitching and turning, struggling to escape.
“What do you think I have in my hands?” snapped the young man.
The rabbi glanced
at the Hitler Youth’s trembling hands.
He saw a feather drift gently from between his nervous fingers. “It’s
not hard to see,” the rabbi said, “that you have a tiny bird cupped in your
palms.”
“Yes,” said the
young German, his lip quivering with anger and contempt. “But is the bird alive or dead? Tell us the
right answer and no evil will befall you or your synagogue.”
The wise rabbi
realized that if he said the bird was dead, they would release the bird. But if he said the bird was alive, they would
certainly kill it. In either case,
wrongdoing was certain to befall both him and his congregation—and they would
be the very ones responsible! The rabbi
saw the history of the Jewish people pass before his eyes. How many times throughout history had they
been put in a no-win situation? Forced
to choose between two dead ends?
But the wise soul
looked straight into the young man’s eyes.
“You ask whether
the bird is alive or dead,” he said.
“The answer is in your hands. The
answer is in your hands.”
In Your Hands, Because God Loves
Stories
No comments:
Post a Comment