Congregation Emanu-El of Westchester: Sermon Archives

YIZKOR
OCTOBER 2, 2006

I have always appreciated the mystique of the desert. Three thousand years ago a group of slaves were transformed into a people while wandering through the Sinai. David spent his youth in the wilderness of Judaea, herding sheep, playing his lyre and composing psalms --- "The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want ---." The prophet Elijah, retreated into the desert to renew his spirit before returning to the towns and villages of Israel to preach the word of God. And, in my earlier years I would camp under the stars along the Wadis, the dry river basins, and pitch a tent in an oasis where once Moses had passed on his journey to the Promised Land.

That is why, traveling in Morocco, I sought out the Sahara. It was to be a brief visit, a night in the black tents that were the hallmark of the Bedouin, the obligatory ride on a camel, that ship of the desert, sinking then rising along the fluctuating landscape of sand dunes.

But twenty miles from the town of Erfoud, entrance port to the Sahara, Ahmed, my driver, received a phone call from deep within the desert. In this world of technology cell phones connect every point in Morocco --- even rising above the towering dunes. Cell phone communication in Morocco puts Scarsdale, with its many dead spots, to shame.

Completing his conversation Ahmed, with regret in his voice, announced, "sand storms are forming. We may not be able to journey into the desert." No camels. I would have to be satisfied with Ahmed's Mercedes, and once again I realized that with all the incredible advances in technology, there are certain aspects of life that we can not control. Like nature. By the time I reached Erfoud the swirling sand had settled like a curtain over our world, visibility had been erased and I was forced to check into a hotel as pockets of sand covered the macadam road.

Visibly disappointed, I asked Ahmed when he thought the sandstorm would break. Perhaps I could venture into the desert at a later time. Ahmed smiled slightly. "When will the storm end? I wish I could tell you my friend. Sometimes they last for days." Then his smile broadened. "But this I can assure you. It will end. Certainly it will end. The veil of sand will rise."

I settled into my room, fell asleep only to be awakened by Ahmed knocking on the door. "The storm will end about 10:30 p.m. That is what the computer says." And, true to Ahmed's word at 10:30 I saw stars hovering in the sky. A clear night broke out over the desert. At 4:00 a.m. I hoisted myself on a camel and ventured off to view the sunrise atop the sand dunes.

As always, when I visit the desert, whether the Judaean wilderness, the Sinai or, most recently, the Sahara, I bring back a particle. Not of sand but of wisdom. And somewhere in the desert, swaying on the back of a camel I realized that the sandstorm had been a metaphor for loss. How quickly the winds had begun, how soon the curtain had fallen --- and this phenomena also applies to death. At one moment the fullness of life beckons and we feel as if we see life from the peak of a dune --- anticipating another sunrise --- but the next moment loss intrudes, enveloping us in a veil of darkness - as if we have relinquished clarity in our lives. Then I remember Ahmed's words: "The storm will end. The veil will lift."

We can not know when morning will dawn again. Computer forecasts are not found in the realm of the heart. But eventually our lives will brighten. The timing differs for each person. But unlike nature, where we are often helpless, we do have some control over our future. We possess an indomitable will and, if we remember that time may be infinite but our personal life is not then we can use that will to recover, to move forward - to enjoy the years, in spite of loss.

Yes, Ahmed I hear your assurance that eventually the cloud will lift from our hearts; that, in the words of our liturgy, weeping may tarry for the night but joy cometh in the morning.

And piercing the heavy storm of gloom, memories permit those we loved, and still love, to remain with us, for memories never perish. They look out from beneath the veil and bring brightness to the day.

This was the wisdom I acquired in the midst of a sandstorm in the Sahara Desert.