The Gathering

The cold winter air whipped across my face, forcing me to pull the brim of my hat even further down over my forehead. Returning my chapped hands to my pockets, I quickened my pace. The street was dark, empty –save for the figures of others racing from the inky shadows to the warmth of their homes.

The wind picked up again, bringing tears to my eyes . . . a plastic bag flew forwards, sent into flight by the lick of winter's icy tongue, and rattled past me.

I glanced at the houses that stood like sentinels guarding the block –bastions of warmth radiating out to the streets, the occasional snippet of laughter and talk, the wafting aroma of hearty meals . . .

In the distance could be heard the sound of song –many voices joining as one in a tune not somber, nor joyous, but rather filled with yearning.

The closer I drew towards the source, the stronger and more meaningful the melody.

"The Voice of my beloved is knocking; open for me my sister, my dear, my dove, my perfection . . ."

At last I had reached my destination . . . my sojourn had come to an end –or rather it

had just begun.

Stealing my way into the crowded room, I managed to find a seat amongst my friends and pushed forward in order to better hear the words of the Rabbi speaking.

With a jolt, the Rabbi stood up from his place, his eyes scanning the crowd of Yeshiva Students before him. The singing stopped.

"What are we doing with our lives!" he shouted, "Where are spiritually? G-d calls out to us, His children, his firstborn, and beseeches 'Return to me! Come back to me! I know who you are; I know your limitations . . . I ask from you to take only a few fleeting steps like a child learning to walk –then I will whisk you into my arms . . . bring you higher! Find a place for me in your heart, open a tiny hole for me . . . I will do the rest.'

"My friends, it need only be a little action, but it must be a complete action! Until then, He waits for us, calling 'Open for me! My beloved . . ."

The Rabbi returns to his chair, his eyes cast down; his right hand resting on a half empty bottle of seltzer, the left slowly keeping beat to our renewed singing . . .

"The voice of my beloved is knocking; open for me . . ."

Tears fall from his eyes, rolling slowly down his cheeks and into his long black beard.

He cries, and we cry –tears of shame over what has gone awry in the past, tears of yearning as we look forward to what could be . . . and then tears of joy over a connection forged anew with the One Above.

Suddenly the Rabbi looks up again,

"What are we doing? What are we?

"We are soldiers! Soldiers in the army of G-d; we are here to fight his battles and to win! Tell me my friends, have you ever seen a sad soldier win a fight? NO! In order to emerge victorious –to bring Moshiach- we must march to a different beat!"

With all of his might, the rabbi springs from his chair onto the table . . . a song of victory in his throat, his hands flying in the air conducting the crowd –raising us from our own seats and march us out. We sang in unison –our voices joining as one and reaching out into the murky night.

In the streets there was darkness –but the light from within pushed it all away

.