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The first time Micheal Rabinavitch found himself saying the Shema was during COVID. Everyone around him in suits and masks, Dr Adamson at the helm, then sick, then dying. He'd had to make the choice to let him go, let him die. A child needed the respirator. What sort of choice was that, he asked, shouting the Shema in his room afterwards. How can such a choice be given to mortals, to humans, to choose? Baruch shem kevod malchutu le'olam va'ed, he added, quietly, tears running down his cheeks. Blessed be the name of the honor of his kingship for ever and ever. What honor is there when people are dying. What kingship when the leadership fails us. And yet still he said it, with all the belief of a man who doesn't believe.
The second time Mike Rabinavitch found himself saying the Shema, he said it quietly to himself, when COVID was more under control. It was a prayer of thanks, of relief. Shema Yisrael, hear, oh Israel. Hear that hashem, the name, is one and his name is one. There was nothing more to be said, just quiet reflection, just quiet thanks. Thanks that this plague, this horror, was lessened. Thanks that he came through it alive, though many he loved didn’t.
The third time Dr Robby said the Shema was during a mass casualty event. His stepson's girlfriend had died at his hands. Jake had blamed him. And sure, Jake was a kid, but it didn't help. He still remembered every person who died, he still felt every soul like an anchor on his. Shema Yisrael, hear me g-d, he prayed, help me g-d, he begged. Shema Yisrael, help me hold this weight, help me help others. He didn't believe in g-d, not really. But the Shema was an anchor point, one which he could hold in the midst of a storm. An anchor point as thin as a piece of hair, just barely there. G-d didn't answer, he never did. But the weight lifted just a little, just enough for him to take another breath and brave the waves.
כׇּל אָדָם צָרִיךְ, כׇּל אָדָם צָרִיךְ לִצְעֹק, כׇּל אָדָם צָרִיךְ לִצְעֹק לָה'. וְלִשָּׂא לִבּוֹ, וְלִשָּׂא לִבּוֹ אֶל עַל, כְּאִלּוּ הוּא בְּאֶמְצַע יָם, תָּלוּי עַל חוּט הַשַּׂעֲרָה, וְרוּחַ סְעָרָה נוֹשֵׁב, נוֹשֵׁב עַד לֵב הַשָּׁמַיִם, עַד שֶׁאֵין יוֹדְעִים, אֵין יוֹדְעִים מָה לַעֲשׂוֹת. וְכִמְעַט שֶׁאֵין, וְכִמְעַט שֶׁאֵין, וְכִמְעַט שֶׁאֵין זְמַן אֲפִלּוּ לִצְעֹק.
Later, he’d reminisce on these moments, on how he felt hashem there, listening, hearing him yell out his anger, his relief, his grief. He still didn’t believe in hashem, didn’t want to believe, and yet acknowledging that presence in those times helped. It relieved some sort of pressure, opened some sort of valve, allowed him to ride those waves of horror and grief and work that happen during these events.
Later, he’d find himself at synagogue, behind the Bimah, following the Torah portion about the ‘Akeidah, the trial of sacrficie, where Avraham was told to sacrifice his son Isaac and he’d find himself remembering. He’d find himself remembering the sacrifices of Dr Adamson, choosing to let him die so others can live. He’d find himself reliving the sacrifice made by Jake to save others, and how that still wasn’t enough to save his girlfriend. At synagogue he found himself reliving his own sacrifices, his own pain, and he found himself finding some amount of relief, of healing, from joining the community and calling out to g-d with them.