COVID-Diary, Week Eleven

I had the most remarkable experience this last Tuesday, one I resolved on the spot to write about this week. And I also want to bring you all up to date on my COVID-era project of re-reading Mark Twain and learning what I can about the human condition from one of its greatest and most keenly trenchant observers. So, a two-part letter this week!

First, the Tuesday experience. As some readers know, I served the Canadian Jewish Congress (Pacific Region) as its chairperson for Interfaith Relations for more than a decade when we were still living in British Columbia. (This was long before the organization closed down operations in 2011.) I enjoyed that experience a lot. For one thing, I met all sorts of interesting people into contact with whom I would almost definitely not otherwise have come—particularly Sikhs and Muslims, but also Hindus, Christians of all flavors, and a sprinkling of other types. For another, serving in that capacity meant I was invited to all sorts of events and celebrations that I’d otherwise never have even heard of, let alone be invited to attend. So that was the good part. But there was also something almost irritatingly anodyne about the whole operation, almost as though it went without saying that the only sure way to maintain friendly relations between the various faith groups involved was almost obsessively to avoid controversy at all costs, a goal attained by refusing to discuss any topic that could possibly lead to friction, debate, or disagreement. The last thing any of these people wanted was to disagree, at least in public, about anything at all! And that part I didn’t like much at all.

The notion that the members of different faith groups can get along solely by ignoring the issues that divide them rather than by listening carefully and respectfully to each other and agreeing to disagree—that notion felt (and feels) to reflect a basic insecurity about the ability of people courteously and civilly to speak honestly to each other. Some other time I’ll write about some of my actual experiences serving as Interfaith Chair for the CJC during our Vancouver years, but I only bring it up today to provide a sense of the background I brought with me on Tuesday when, in the middle of the afternoon here, I signed onto a world-wide zoom platform to participate in a truly remarkable interfaith encounter, one spearheaded by my friend and colleague, Rabbi Tamar Elad-Appelbaum in Jerusalem. 

I’ve known Rabba Tamar (as she’s known—the Hebrew title rabba is what non-Orthodox Israelis call female rabbis) for years and had the privilege of editing her very interesting commentary on Pirkei Avot as part of the Pirkei Avot Lev Shalem volume published in 2018 by the Rabbinical Assembly. But Joan and I are also her occasional congregants: when we’re in Israel, we often attend the Friday night service at Tziyon, the congregation she serves in the Baka neighborhood of southern Jerusalem. And it was for that reason, I think, that I received an invitation last week to participate in something the flyer referenced as “a one-of-a-kind online global gathering” to be hosted by a group called Maaminim (“believers” in Hebrew) that was also to be “a spiritual joining of religious faiths and art from the sacred city of Jerusalem” and also “a digital prayer for healing by religious leaders and communities from across the globe.” I get lots of invitations to events like this, particularly in these last months. But because I know Rabba Tamar—and also because I met one of the participants, a Hebrew-speaking Franciscan monk from Italy named Alberto Pari whom I once met at Rabba Tamar’s Friday night table—I decided to bookmark the event and to tune in at the appointed hour.

The experience was exceptional. For one thing, there were hundreds and hundreds of people gathered on the Maaminim zoom platform. Some people added their locations to their signatures, so I could see people signed from all over North America and Israel, but also from many European countries (including Vatican City), from Australia, and from many Asian countries as well. It was a varied group, too: not only multinational, but also multi-generational, multi-ethnic, and very multi-spiritual. The event was led by Rabba Tamar and a Christian priest, who began by speaking to each other—openly and deeply—about the specific way that the vulnerability that the COVID-era has naturally engendered in us all has also made us all more aware of the degree to which we need to rely on each other, to turn to each other, to encounter each other in ways we might otherwise not have even realized possible. There was music too—and lots of it, mostly performed in Jerusalem by members of the various faith groups represented and all of it soulful and heartfelt. And then we were all asked to participate by writing a word or two on a piece of paper and holding it up to the camera, a word we wished to share with this remarkable gathering of people of faith from all across the globe.

Some of what people wrote was what you’d expect: shalom, strength, courage, unity, health, etc. But there was a secondary theme present too, one suggestive of the core idea that the way to negotiate the COVID-crisis is precisely by engaging with each other, by using the sense of brittle fragility we’re all experiencing not solely as a negative thing to be avoided for as long as we can and then abandoned as quickly as possible, but as a positive thing to be embraced, as something to be accepted as native to the human condition (albeit one we generally try to repress or ignore) and then used as a basis for reaching out to others, for building a community of people who are—paradoxically, but really nonetheless—made stronger by acknowledging their weakness…and more sturdy in their faith by facing the instability that crises like the one upon us naturally engender.

I am usually more than slightly cynical about this kind of undertaking. And yet here were hundreds and hundreds of people from all across the globe, people who looked different from each other and who would normally have no way to join together—and yet who had been prompted by the pandemic to see themselves in the eyes of others and thus to find the common humanity we all share in the contemplation not of how similar we all are, but how different…and how the right dose of humility—and particularly one rooted in an acceptance of the precariousness of the human condition—can allow us to look past the cosmetic and see ourselves as each other’s partner in the great goal of coming out of the COVID-age whole, sane, and well.

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In other news, I finished my re-read of Tom Sawyer. I first read the book back in high school, at which time I remember finding it irritating that we, sophisticated tenth-graders that we were, were being asked to read a children’s book. And that really is how it struck me back then—as a book about children and meant for children. Twain himself promoted the book that way back in the day, but he knew perfectly well that it was going to be marketed to adults and read by them—he was, after all, one of America’s bestselling authors when the book came out—and he obviously also knew that a lot of what he was saying in the book would only be intelligible to adult readers anyway.

In the 1870s, the nation was still reeling from the terrible carnage of the Civil War, America’s bloodiest conflict. So by setting his 1876 book in the 1840s, Twain was inviting his readers to look back to an earlier, happier age. Indeed, by making Tom and Huck into eight- or nine-year-olds (their actual ages are not made clear) in the 1840s, he was also making them precisely the right age to have become soldiers during the Civil War and thus inviting his readers to remember a time when the young men of that generation were not soldiers trying to kill each other, but little children wholly unaware of the conflagration to come and its terrors. In his own way, then, Twain was doing something not entirely dissimilar from what Rabba Tamar was trying to do the other day: to invite people reeling from catastrophe to find comfort and resolve not in contemplating the catastrophe itself but in accepting the vulnerability the contemplation of catastrophe can engender. The book is set in Missouri, a border state that never quite joined the Confederacy—by war’s end 110,000 Missourians had served in the Union Army and only 30,000 in the Confederate Army. So would Tom and Huck have fought for the North or the South? It’s hard to say…and that, of course, is the point: by setting the book where and when he did, he makes of his children-heroes into future soldiers who could have ended up on either side of the conflict and who only might have survived. (Twain himself spent exactly two weeks serving as a volunteer in a Confederate militia called the Marion Rangers before quitting, a detail that seems to have been more or less totally forgotten by most. For more, click here.)

The story, unlike how I remembered it, was far-fetched and unlikely…but just possible enough to lend the book a breezy, almost dream-like quality. The children are innocent beings throughout: even when contemplating lives of crime and piracy, Tom and Huck are depicted as naïve and unambiguously pre-pubescent. (When, for example, Tom and Becky Thatcher end up spending several days together secluded in a labyrinthine cave, there is no hint at all of untoward behavior.) And that too was the point of Twain’s goal, I think: to remind readers that all people start out innocent and guileless, that forgiveness can come from reaching over the present into the past, that the sense of extreme vulnerability engendered by the horrors of day-to-day reality in wartime (be the enemy a virus or an actual enemy army) can be exploited to bring people together and make them feel connected and eager to support each other, just as do the people in the Tom’s town—who are depicted as being kind without being insensitive to wrongdoing, moral without being blind to the nature of childhood, and mutually supportive without transcending the mores of their own day.

So that’s what I learned from my COVID-era re-read of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Next  I’ll report to you on my re-read of Huckleberry Finn, possibly the greatest American novel of them all and one that was for several different reasons specifically not assigned to us in high school.