Here are the remarks I made this morning at a Habitat for Humanity event in Billerica, Massachusetts. I also worked for about two hours clearing a new house site with Christians, Muslims, Jews. It is at the corner of Peace and Friendship. Everyone who spoke talked about the need to build up–from the foundation up–at a time when things are falling down. After we finished each finished our remarks we broke bread (pita, naan, matzah, tortillas and rice cakes), we sang or read blessings and graces for Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Buddhism and Hinduism. This was a powerful moment.

Habitat for Humanity is a powerful model. And while I was busy doing this, my daughter did something too. Behind the scenes she arranged for my old car in California to be donated to Habitat for Humanity in my honor. It seem so fitting. The car that brought me back and forth to New York. Her first car. Finding a new way to recycle and “ReStore.”

About six months ago I got a phone call from Dan Bush, the development director, for Habitat for Humanity of Greater Lowell. “What are you doing on 9/11?” he asked. “Working,” I was sure. Because it is so close to Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Why? I wondered. “Because I would like it if you could come into Boston and talk about your experience with Habitat for Humanity. On 9/11 about 9/11”

I rarely say no to Habitat. Here’s why. On September 11^th in 2001 I was in New York City. I was trying desperately to find the new campus of the Academy for Jewish Religion, tucked up on the fifth floor of the administration building of a Catholic College. I was lost in Yonkers. No, really. I was. I turned off the radio so I could concentrate. The last news story I heard was about an American drone being shot down over Iraq. Oh, no, I thought, here we go again. I called Simon for directions and could not get through. I cursed him and Sprint. When I finally found the College of Mount Saint Vincent…I was greeted by a hysterical classmate who was trying to find a television. She was worried about a bombing. I assumed in Israel. She said the World Trade Center. I said, and I quote, “Get a grip. That was 1993.” As it turned out she had a daughter in the World Trade Center and one in the Pentagon. She was lucky. Both were OK. As know now many more were not.

On a beautiful bright blue day, my class watched the smoke rise further down the river. After being told if we could make it to Connecticut we would be safe, somehow I managed to get gas in my car without a credit card server that worked and I made it to Connecticut where miraculously my cell phone started to work again. I say miraculously because in all those years I commuted to New York for school I dropped more calls in Connecticut than anywhere else. The first call I received was from Rabbi Larry Zimmerman. By now Dracut knew whom the pilot of Flight 11 was. John Oganowski. I knew him from Tufts. He was a farmer and helped Cambodian refugees grow food on this farm that otherwise was difficult to find in America. Dracut was already beginning the painful task of planning memorials. The next call was from a principal in Acton. She had a kindergarten student with a father on the plane. The next call was from a rabbi—who opted to close the synagogue for Hebrew School since the Wang Towers were also closing. It was a scary, long, confusion drive home. It was eerily silent. Most people were off the roads and holed up watching TV. Despite that bright blue sky, it seemed the world was collapsing. Do you remember?

Carol Gagne had the task of planning a service at Saints Memorial. I was doing my pastoral care class with her. The volunteer coordinator whose office was next door to Carol’s was Madeline Sweeney’s sister-in-law. Madeline was the flight attendant who heroically used her cell phone to alert the traffic control towers that they had been hijacked. We learned of others who were lost that day. One of my Girl Scouts lost an uncle. A good friend lost her mother. 2,997 people died that day. Do you remember?

I also remember this: The Rev. Imogene Stulken had had an idea that summer. What if the clergy of GLILA came together and showed Lowell how we could cooperate and build something lasting? What if we worked on a Habitat for Humanity build right here in Lowell? And so we signed up as a group. The day that was scheduled was September 12, 2001. I am not sure that any of us, maybe Imogene, knew what to expect when we got there. Some of the details are foggy. I think it must have been the project on Nichols Street. I know that Imogene, Simon, Steve Fisher, Gordon White, Larry Zimmerman were there. I can’t remember who else. I know that I helped dry wall a closet. I didn’t even know I could do that when I started.

And I know this. When we started building that morning it seemed like all the world was falling down, collapsing, smoking. If Jews and Christians could come together and build something, maybe the world was not so scary a place. Maybe we could even dare to hope for peace.

I have now worked on Habitat sites in North Carolina, Florida, Indiana, New Orleans (three times), and Illinois where I now live. Each of those times has been a special memory. Building with the Rev. Ginny McDaniel, The Rev. David Ferner, Betty and Rachel, Linda Gilmore, the members of my new congregation. I remember praying before working in North Carolina. I remember moving lots of sand to build a playground in hot, humid New Orleans. I remember signing the plywood in a house in the 9^th Ward with a Jewish blessing while a jazz musician played. That musician would be the owner of the house. I remember working along side house owners in Elgin as they moved rocks and laid a subfloor in Elgin.

Sometimes I am asked how I can work with Habitat since it was founded as an explicitly Christian organization. In most places I have been, Habitat accommodates. Habitat has had builds on Sunday—so that Jews can participate and not violate our Sabbath on Saturday. Habitat’s own website states explicitly that it has an open-door policy: “All who desire to be a part of this work are welcome, regardless of religious preference or background. We have a policy of building with people in need regardless of race or religion. We welcome volunteers and supporters from all backgrounds.”

Nonetheless, they see their work as being centered in Christianity in three important ways:

• It is a way of putting faith into action, following the teachings of Jesus, showing love and care for one another and not just words. By bringing, as the website says, diverse groups of people together to make affordable housing and better communities a reality for everyone.
• By following the economics of Jesus. When acting in response to human need, giving without seeking profit, Habitat believes G-d magnifies the effects of the efforts. Together the donated labor of construction workers and volunteers like us with the sweat equity of the Habitat’s partner families, Habitat has been able to make decent, affordable, safe housing for 800,000 families worldwide.
• Millard Fuller described his “theology of the hammer”. “We may disagree on all sorts of other things, but we can agree on the idea of building homes with G-d’s people in need and in doing so using biblical economics: no profit and no interest.”
• I know this—that biblical economics Fuller describes is the Bible we share in common. The Bible was explicit about how to reach economic justice. In the reading for Yom Kippur from the prophet Isaiah we are taught:

Is such the fast I desire,
A day to starve your bodies?
Is it bowing the head like a bulrush
And lying in sackcloth and ashes?
Do you call that a fast,
A day when the Lord is favorable?
No, this is the fast I desire:
To unlock the fetters of wickedness,
And untie the cords of the yoke
To let the oppressed go free;
To break off every yoke.
It is to share your bread with the hungry,
And to take the wretched poor into your home;
When you see the naked, to clothe him,
And not to ignore your own kin.

I know this: this is what Judaism, my own faith tradition demands as well. In Scripture we hold in common, we are taught, “Justice, Justice shall you pursue.” (Deut 16). We are taught that justice means to welcome the stranger because we were strangers in the land of Egypt. We are taught that Abraham even interrupted his prayer to welcome the three guests to his tent, into his home. We are taught that if the officers speak to the people and say, “Who has built a new house and not dedicated it, let him go and return to his house, lest he die in battle and another dedicate it.” (Deut 20:5)

I know this: We are taught to not hold the wages of a laborer overnight. We are taught to leave the corners of our field for the stranger, the widow, the orphan, the most marginalized among us. We are taught that there is a shmita year, a year of release. The shmita year we let the land lay fallow and we forgive debts. It is another form of economic justice. That shmita year begins in two weeks, with Rosh Hashanah.

I know this: We are taught by a non-Jewish prophet, hired to curse the Israelites, “How goodly are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel.” We are taught, “How good and how pleasant it is for people to dwell together.” We are taught “Seek Peace and Pursue it.” So justice and peace we need to pursue, actively run after, chase after with dogged determinism.

I know this: by being at a Habitat for Humanity build with my colleagues from GLILA on 9/12, building while the world seemed to be collapsing, it was the single most powerful moment of my life. Abraham Joshua Heschel said that when he marched with Martin Luther King in Selma his feet were praying. That day, and every day since when I have built with Habitat, I feel my hands are praying with every swing of the hammer.

I know this: by being here today, as we were on 9/11 13 years ago, we are doing precisely this. We are building peace—one swing of the hammer, one Habitat for Humanity home at a time.

And I know this: the world is a scary place again—or maybe still. Habitat for Humanity’s vision is “a world where everyone has a decent place to live. Our mission is to put God’s love into action by bringing people together to build homes, communities and hope.” That sense of hope is what this world needs right now, today. This is what we are building.

Today’s guest, the Rev. Dr. David Ferner picks up where Dona Beavers left off. He explores what it means to be peaceful as individuals. David’s own deep questioning is part of what lead me to rabbinical school.

“…and let it begin with me”

I can’t count the number of times in my life I’ve sung that song and each time my focus has been “Let there be peace on earth.” I’ve longed for peace on the macro level – in the world, in the halls of Congress, in the neighborhood. Though the song’s words point to a most significant locus of peace, I’ve only recently begun to examine my own contribution to my unrest and in a small, but important way, the illusiveness of peace in wider circles.

Perhaps others have had this insight for a long time, but only recently has it occurred to me that there is a mysterious link between my unrest and the world’s travail. Just today, as I saw the campaign sign for a state senator in a neighboring district, I heard myself calling him an idiot. His stands on numerous issues during the last session were opposite mine and, had they been different (more like mine), could have led to abolishing the death penalty in the state, made Medicaid funding available to more people, and greatly increased the resources available to those with mental health issues. But this isn’t about him, it’s about me. It’s about how easily my criticism devolves from a description of action to an attack on character. It’s about how, when faced with opposing views and actions I understand to be less than helpful to others, I make an enemy of the other.

With the starting point in Genesis 1, we are all created in God’s image. I never take that literally, but rather believe it means we are created with the potential of manifesting God’s character, creativity, and compassion. All the adjectives surrounding the Holy One that we learned in our religious education might also surround us because we’ve been created to glorify the Creator. When I make an enemy of an adversary I’m failing to commend the One who created me. When I disrespect the other, I dehumanize that one and myself, as well.

The peace that I desire demands that I respect my adversary and myself enough to treat each of us as children of the Holy One. That means I can differ from the other, but I can’t belittle. I can use descriptive language explaining differences, but never pejorative terms demeaning character. It also helps me to remember that, quite often, what I find most troubling about another has much to do with something within myself – most often something I don’t want to recognize or reconcile.

If I’m to be at peace, I need to treat others and myself more peacefully, more respectfully, and more compassionately. That’s how the Creator would want the created to treat each other. Peace, on both a macro and micro level is so illusive because peoples and nations dehumanize and disrespect in the same fashion as you and me.   We may not believe that we can do much about ‘peace on earth’, but we can ‘let peace begin with me, let this be the moment, now’.   I’m finding my prayer begs for my own interior transformation. I pray that I will see others as the Holy One sees them and my behavior toward them reflects that vision. I pray that such a practice, such behavior, brings me God’s peace so that same peace might be reflected through me to a world that finds such peace so illusive.

The Rev. Dr. David Ferner, Episcopal priest retired from parish ministry

Our next guest is Dona Beavers, an Episcopalian whose daughter converted to Judaism when she married. Dona wanted to learn as much as possible about Judaism so she could be supportive of her daughter and her grandchildren. She is a social worker by training and a photographer by avocation. She is well read and asks great questions. She has been in a Bible discussion group with me for so long I forget when we started. First we did Genesis, then Exodus, then some of the Prophets. Because of the books we read and because members are a certain age we refer to it as GenEx. She was the founder of the GLILA Interfaith Book Discussion Group that met at my home in Massachusetts. For her courage she bears the Hebrew name Devora. 

Here are her reflections on peace. Note that her sense parallels Rabbi Allen’s. Let peace begin with me:

I knew that I wanted to write again for Margaret, having been one of her writers on “forgiveness”.

I began to think about “peace” and my first search was the Oxford English Dictionary and Wikipedia.  The dictionary gave me two definitions.

1. freedom from disturbance, noise, or anxiety.  2.  freedom from war, or the ending of war.

I am most familiar with the second definition.  My father was in the Army and fought in WW II.  So were my three uncles.  And I had one cousin who joined the Navy!

I grew up an Army Brat, and lived on Army posts, and met and married a graduate of the Military Academy at West Point.  I became an Army wife, and then an Army mother.  One of my sons followed in my husband’s foot steps, also graduating from West Point.  I became an Army grandmother and three of my grandchildren served in Iraq.  Members of my family have served in WW II (Africa, Sicily, and Italy), Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, and Afghanistan.  My father was wounded in Italy and two of my grandchildren were wounded in Iraq.

I have prayed for peace nearly all my life–for freedom from war and the ending of war.  The more I thought about writing I kept remembering a song I have always loved.  It sums up my feelings about peace.

“Let There Be Peace On Earth”

Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me.
Let there be peace on earth
The peace that was meant to be,

With God as our father
Brothers all are we,
Let me walk with my brother
In perfect harmony.

Yesterday we spoke about the need to be active, not just pray passively. Maybe by coming together to sing we are actually making peace with our music. Today’s author, Rabbi Katy Allen, also wanted to bring people together. She did exactly that. She is a bridge builder and a peacemaker.

After the violence began between Gaza and Israel, I felt such pain about the situation, and I didn’t know what to do with those feelings. I was upset about many aspects and impacts of the conflict, and I was immobilized.

Then one day something shifted in me, and I suddenly found the strength I had been lacking. I began to realize that there is one thing we all share, and that is our intense grief – grief for those who have been killed, grief at the shattering of any hope that might have been building, despair that the future will ever brighten, and so much more. And it occurred to me that our grief could bring us together. I have led grief workshops in other contexts – facilitating and holding the expression of intense emotions in others are skills that I have. I realized that this was a way that I could do something, here was a way I could make a difference in peoples lives.

I reached out to my Muslim friend Chaplain Shareda Hosein, whom I know and respect from the chaplaincy world. When we spoke, she told me that when she read my email, she felt as though an aching prayer in her heart had been answered.

Shareda and I worked hard to design an environment for deep listening, which we wanted at the core of the program. The two of us clicked – the process was simple, for the planning simply flowed forth without hindrance. We contacted Open Spirit Center– A Place of Hope, Health, and Harmony, in Framingham, where both Shareda and I had previously lead workshops, and they eagerly agreed to host the event.

Once Shareda and I knew what we wanted to do, we asked other faith leaders to help us facilitate the gathering, six in total, knowing that it would be too powerful for just the two of us to hold, and wanting to include our Christian friends.

When the evening arrived, we had no idea how many people to expect, but at least there would be the six of us – Rev. Debbie Clark of Edwards Church and Open Spirit Center, Rev. Fred Moser of Church of the Holy Spirit in Wayland, Nabeel Kudairi of the Islamic Council of New England, Rabbi Matia Angelou, chaplain at Newton-Wellesley Hospital and Care Dimensions Hospice, Chaplain Shareda Hosein of the Islamic Society of Boston Cultural Center and the Association of Muslim Chaplains, and myself, chaplain at Brigham and Women’s Hospital and rabbi of Ma’yan Tikvah – A Wellspring of Hope.

When the evening came, people started arriving early. One woman told me that she wanted to get a parking space, and she feared the parking lot would fill up! Slowly people trickled in, in ones and twos and threes. Before long, the parking lot did fill, and we kept adding chairs to our circle.

Debbie welcomed everyone to Open Spirit, and we stated that we were not gathering to solve anything or to blame anyone, but to share what was on our hearts and to hear what was on the hearts of others. We acknowledged that what we had gathered to do was difficult, and that we needed both to be gentle on ourselves and also to hold ourselves to the ground rules we agreed upon.

We began by using ritual to create a sense of safe and sacred space. In the center of our circle we placed a large glass bowl of water. Shareda spoke about the importance of water in Muslim tradition for ritual cleansing, and then about gratitude. Matia gave each person a beach rock to hold, inviting them to squeeze it tightly if they found themselves triggered by something someone said. Fred spoke about deep listening from the perspective of Christian tradition.

Nabeel invited people to pair off and to practice deep listening by introducing themselves to their neighbor and then sharing about something for which they felt grateful. The previously quiet room was suddenly abuzz with voices as people got to know each other. We then took the time to allow each person to introduce his or her partner and to tell what they felt grateful for. A number of people mentioned their gratitude for being present in this gathering. We went around the circle in order, and by the time each person had spoken, the space inside our circle was being framed and held by gratitude. The sense of the sacred was imminent.

We turned then to grief. I spoke about the mosaic of grief: our grief in response to a personal loss is made up of many aspects and many emotions; it is not a single feeling, but a multitude of responses to our days, our environment, and our situation. When we are dealing with communal tragedy, it takes all of us together, with all of our myriad emotions, to create the mosaic of our grief.

We gave people sheets of colored paper and Debbie asked them to write down their feelings and place their papers on the floor. Gradually the floor became covered by paper “tiles” as we literally created the mosaic of our grief. As people finished, we spread out the papers and invited everyone to walk around and read all the comments.

Once we had returned to our seats, then, and only then, did we invite people to speak their grief. The circle of 39 people held all of our intense emotions. It was strong enough and solid enough to do so.

When we had finished speaking, we held our shared emotions in silence.

I spoke about post-trauma growth, and the fact that researchers have found that after a trauma, most people eventually work through it and grow. Our losses can, and do, transform us. We affirmed our dark emotions with a reading from Healing Through the Dark Emotions, by Miriam Greenspan.

We then shifted directions and invited people to speak about hope and faith and trust. Quickly, the positive connections began to flow and to fill the circle, entering into the spaces in the mosaic between the paper tiles of grief and fear and despair.

We took time for prayers from our heart, prayers for peace, prayers for the people of Israel and Gaza, prayers of hope and healing and faith.

The last words from one of the participants were – “We may have come in fear, but we needn’t have. This worked. For me, it worked.”

We stood and stretched, with our arms and hands taking blessing into our circle and ourselves, letting it go outward in to the universe. And we concluded with Matia leading us in song, “Peace Will Come,” by Tom Paxton, which ends with the words “Peace will come, and let it begin with me.”

You and I, we cannot change the situation in Israel and Gaza. We can support those with whom we identify with our words and with our dollars, we can go there, we can support those we know who live there, but we cannot create peace there in the Middle East. We can, however, create a little bit of peace here, if and when we are ready to begin with ourselves.

Gathering in Grief for Hope and Healing: Israel / Gaza 2014 Conflict was not an ending, it was a beginning. We hope to build a cadre of facilitators willing and able to bring this program to other communities. We plan to develop follow up programs, to carry forth with the effort to connect with those with whom we may not agree by touching our emotions, and by building faith, and trust, and hope. We hope you will join us.

For more information, or to plan an event in your community, contact Rabbi Katy Allen at rabbi @ mayantikvah.org or Chaplain Shareda Hosein at shareda @ comcast.net.

Rabbi Katy Z. Allen is the founder and leader of Ma’yan Tikvah – A Wellspring of Hope in Wayland, MA, and a staff chaplain at the Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. She is the co-convener of the Jewish Climate Action Network and the co-creator of Gathering in Grief: The Israel / Gaza 2014 Conflict.

As we move back into the work week, the echoes of the music Friday night still linger. I learned a new Oseh Shalom, thanks to the band, Soul Zimra that graced Congregation Kneseth Israel with their presence. They introduced us–me included to a new Oseh Shalom by Nava Tehila. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Sc5tASLM1o

As they explained to us, this is an active Oseh Shalom. Too often when we sing about peace, when we pray about peace, it is somber, passive. Yet we are told to “seek peace and pursue it.”

Rabbi/Cantor Anne Heath explored something similar at her congregation in Tauton, MA recently. She introduced them to The Jewish/Arab Song for Peace. You can listen to it here. http://jewishtaunton.wordpress.com/2014/09/06/the-jewish-arab-peace-song/ The melody is haunting and the lyrics are joyful and hopeful all at the same time. But for me, watching the faces of the musicians coming together actively to sing for peace is amazing. We need more of this.

Often there is a tension between spirituality and activism. In fact, you need both. For me, my activism is my spirituality. And yet, sometimes I need to sit back and recharge my batteries. Parker Palmer, a well-known Quaker writer in his book, the Active Life, a book that explores spirituality for the busy, sometimes frenetic lives many of us lead. He uses stories to explain that the spiritual life does not mean we need to abandon the world but engage more deeply with it. It was a gift that my spiritual director gave me for ordination. I have read it several times and suspect I need to reread it. It weaves stories from Buddhist, Jewish and Christian traditions. I admit to not fully understanding the Buddhist story, being surprised by the Jewish one and finding his understanding of the crucifixion and resurrection as a communal event instead of a personal event powerful and challenging.

One person who works on the front lines of peacemaking is Gretchen Vapner, the executive director of the Community Crisis Center.  She writes for this project:

“You have described peaceful moments—those times when the quiet or the music or the scenery transports us to a peaceful place. But, to me Peace is non-violent conflict resolution; it is productivity, compassion, and creativity. It should be a verb.

Peace is the end-product and the means. It is the goal and the way of getting there. It is something to be sought which takes constant attention and work. It is discovering something important to do –important not just for you and yours but for them and theirs. It is working to see the ‘whole picture’; what will it mean to you if I get my way? It is choosing my actions based on very broad concepts of equality, knowledge and responsibility. Peace comes with identifying and then solving a problem; collecting all of your skills, resources, and understanding to address a challenge. Peace is not crossing the finish line…being satisfied. It is having the race to run and keeping the finish line in mind.

When I am sitting at the water’s edge at our Lake-Place I experience a peaceful moment or two feeling as if all is right with the world. When I am working to clean up the shoreline or help my grandchildren learn to swim I am all about peace–taking action towards a better world.”

Gretchen Vapner is the Executive Director of the Community Crisis Center in Elgin, IL. She works on making peace every single day as she helps families and the community at large cope with the issues surrounding domestic violence. The Community Crisis Center provides a crisis hotline, resources on domestic violence, sexual assault, children’s resources, shelter, emergency food and utility help, counseling, community education and professional training. I am privileged to work with Gretchen and a number of people on her staff.

Ever wonder why I sign my emails, “l’shalom?” A long time ago I worked for a rabbi who told me to. Insistent that I did. He was emphatic. I wish I could say he gently guided me.

I had been signing them “B’shalom. B’shalom, in peace, is something we say about people who have died. As Sue pointed out in English we say, “rest in peace.” But that is not quite enough. The preposition in Hebrew, B’ can mean in, at or with. So in our liturgy we will actually sing B’shalom in several places, notably in the Shabbat liturgy. We want G-d to bless us “b’shalom”, with peace. We want the Shabbat angels to come b’shalom, in peace. Watch while you are sitting at services.

L’shalom is the hope that the world, that we ourselves will move towards peace. It is a similar usage to G-d speaking with Abraham. “Lech l’cha,” is usually translated as “Go forth” or “Go from” but really the rabbis teach us it carries with it the sense of “Go towards” They say it means, “Go towards yourself. Become yourself.”

Some days, this week for me in particular, it seems we can’t do much about peace. The world is too confusing. Too scary. What can we individuals possibly do? Why even bother?

Then I remember a good friend of mine. She is a Quaker. She has a tradition of signing every email, “Peace.” Because for her that is the ultimate goal. Because it is something she can do.

Her original idea came from a book of Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander where he said, “If you yourself is at peace, at least there is some peace in the world.” So every time she signs an email she says she brings more peace into the world. And she smiles.

And she uses another quote that as she points out has been ascribed to lots of people, “There is no way to peace. Peace is the way.” This quote, often attributed to Gandhi came from AJ Muste who was born in the Netherlands, grew up in Grand Rapids in the Dutch Reformed Church and then became a Congregational minister in Newtonville, working on labor relations including those in Lawrence, MA and on peacemaking. I felt like I was reading about a kindred spirit.

Depending on my mood I “hear” her signature in different ways. Sometimes I hear it in the way she intends. Sometimes I hear it and think, really—I am never going to be at peace. The world will never be peaceful, what is she talking about, why is she challenging me, what does she expect of me.

Then I remember this discussion about L’shalom/B’shalom and I understand. Peace is something we hope for. We are not there yet. Peace is a process. So, I will keep signing my emails, “L’shalom.” One day we may get there. Speedily and in our day.

L’shalom/sa’alam/peace
Margaret

Susan Johnson is a retired teacher, former president of Congregation Kneseth Israel where she currently serves as Sisterhood treasurer and VP of Education. Retirement means that she has more time to devote to her volunteer activities which are copious. She has five grandchildren and enjoys attending all sorts of events with them and providing one-on-one  bubbe time!

Why can’t I describe peace? As I think about history, before and during my lifetime, I don’t think it has ever existed in a political sense. Sadly, there is always fighting somewhere in the world. Mankind only seems to know a “cease fire” until the next battle.

So perhaps, there is another way to look at peace. I have often heard someone say upon the death of a loved one, “They are at peace.” How sad that a person has to wait until his death to be at peace.

But wait, a person doesn’t have to wait until his final moment. If I like who I am, if I treat life with optimism, humor, and honor, then my life is peaceful. I believe that each person can choose to be happy. If I am happy with myself, I can treat others with respect. Life is full of challenges but they can be met with optimism and joy. Have I always had this philosophy? No, it comes with maturity. As adults, our responsibility is to provide our children the security to acquire this feeling. Our job as a community is to provide others around us the same self-assurance.

For me, peace is an inner feeling. My wish for the world is that others can gain that feeling so someday we can live in a world of peace.

Earlier this summer I wrote about sitting in my step-daughter’s home, in Los Angeles, praying for peace. The similarities between Los Angeles and Jerusalem seemed palpable. Yet LA seemed calm and Jerusalem seemed on the verge of war. It was.

I remember sitting on other porches. In Jerusalem. On a kibbutz. The porch at Jolli Lodge. In this very house waiting for news that we would live here. Always there has been the hope of peace.

The song “Bashanah Haba’ah” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKrbnmYY1Rs captures the same sentiment that Doria wrote about on her porch in Revere, Massachusetts:

Next year, we’ll sit on the porch
And count the migrating birds.
Children on vacation will play tag
Between the house and the fields.

You’ll see, you’ll see
How good it will be
Next year.

Red grapes will ripen by evening
And will be served chilled at the table.
Eazy breezes will carry to the crossroads
Old newspapers and a cloud.

You’ll see, you’ll see
How good it will be
Next year we’ll spread our hands
To the streaming white light.

A white heron will spread its wings in the light
And the sun will shine
from within them.

You’ll see, you’ll see
How good it will be
Next year.

Bashana haba’a
Neishev al hamirpeset
Ve’nispor tziporim nodedot,

Yeladim bechufsha
Yesachak’u tofeset
Bein habayit l’ve’in hasadot

Od tireh, od tireh
Kama tov yihiyeh
Bashana, bashana haba’a

Anavim adumim
Yavshilu ad ha’erev
Ve’yugshu tzone’nim lashulchan,

Ve’ruchot redumim
Yis’u al em haderech
Itonim yeshanim v’anan.

Od tir eh, od tir eh,
Bashana haba’a
Nifros kapot yadayim
Mul ha’or hanigar halavan,

Anafa levana
Tifros ka’or k’nafayim
V’hashemesh tizrach b’tochan.
Od tir eh, od tir eh,
Lyrics by Ehud Manor, music by Nurit Hirsch, translation in the “Harvard Hillel Sabbath Songbook” (Ben-Zion Gold, ed., Pub by David Godine, 1992, ISBN 0879239409)

So sitting on a porch, watching the children playing, sipping a cup of coffee (really at 7PM? Not me!), maybe peace is achievable. It is like the hope expressed in Isaiah, “Everyone ‘neath their vine and fig tree shall live in peace and unafraid. And into plowshares beat their swords. Nations shall learn war no more.” This vision is popularized in an Israeli folk song, Lo Yisa Goy, adapted by Peter Paul and Mary, and emblazoned on the wall at the United Nations.

Yehudi Amichai, the Israeli poet, took it one step further. In his, “Appendix to the Vision of Peace” said, “Don’t stop after beating the swords into plowshares, don’t stop! Go on beating and make musical instruments out of them. Whoever wants to make war again will have to turn them into plowshares first.”

That’s the vision of peace I want to keep. That I want to promote.

And yet, I am puzzled. Earlier this summer I was asked why the prophet Joel seems to say the opposite. “Beat your plowshares into swords, and your pruning-hooks into spears; let the weak say: ‘I am strong.’ (Joel 3:10)

After the senseless and brutal killing of another American journalist, there has been some sabre rattling. Maybe Joel is trying to teach us that in some circumstances it is important to be strong. It is OK to defend ourselves. Not only is it OK, it is necessary.

Deuteronomy carefully spells out the correct way, the just way to conduct a war. For instance if you built a house but haven’t dedicated it, if you planted but haven’t harvested, if you married but hadn’t consummated it yet, you don’t have to go to war. Even if you are “fearful” and “fainthearted,” you didn’t have to go. If you offer a city peace and it accepts, the people become your bounty. But if you offer peace and it makes war—then you may besiege the city. And for me, one of the most important teachings in all of Torah—if you must besiege the city (seems to be a last resort option), then you must not cut down its fruit trees.

From this we derive the principle of bal taschit, do not destroy. From this we derive Judaism’s fundamental commitment to the environment, to G-d’s creation, to all living things.

Being strong is important. We are told over and over again “chazak v’emetz, be strong and of good courage.” For example, Joshua 1: 6. How we are strong is equally important. Our tradition gives us both.

As for me, I want to sit on my porch, sipping my coffee or maybe a glass of wine, listening to the children at play, someone singing while strumming a guitar, and let no one make me afraid. That is my vision of peace.

I sometimes call myself the TV, because I receive ‘feelings’ all the time. They are always associated with sight or smell.  The smell of garlic roasting in olive oil to me signifies home, because it was the most present smell on Sunday mornings when my dad cooked Sunday dinner.

Sometimes, not often, I feel peace in certain situations and people.  A situation that comes to mind is my 7pm ritual of sitting on my porch with my husband, having a cup of coffee.  I can hear the complex’s fountain whispering in the background, the birds chattering to each other ‘Day is Done, Day is Done”, dogs and children playing in their respective parks.

I feel peace watching snow fall, seeing fat bumblebees buzz among beautiful flowers, hearing rain drumming on a roof, and long ago watching my children sleeping as babies.  That gave me the most peace, watching their untainted minds drift in and out of a wonderful dream, their mouths making that suckling pout even when sleeping.

I find great peace in the sounds and smell of the ocean.  In fact, many years ago, when I was going through a particularly difficult time in my life I often would drive to the ocean and just sit.  That was where I found peace, and where I felt God.

The person I find the most peace with, nowadays,  isn’t a ‘religious’.   He’s just my husband. Perhaps I confuse the feeling of contentment and safety with peace, but with him my heart and mind are at peace.

Being a Roman Catholic I know I’m supposed to say I find peace in church, but I think God is everywhere.  When I feel God is present in a situation, as in babies, the ocean, nature, I feel a profound peace.

Recently, I had to give a speech at my best friends memorial service.  She died recently of breast cancer and we grew up together.  We had been friends for nearly 50 years.  I do not do well speaking in front of crowds.  I get classic cotton mouth. I stumble over words and get very, very nervous.  One would think a situation like the speech would be one I would be wringing my hands over, and I thought so too.  That morning, when I got up to speak I remembered her bravery. Her friendship, not the loss of it. But how lucky I was to have her as my friend, And peace came over me.  I gave a good speech that day, I never stumbled, never got my cotton-mouth, and I didn’t cry.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that peace and the feeling of peace is different for each of us, and we can make that peace happen, and sometimes it just comes over us.  It’s something we should try to remember when in a not so peaceful or peace-filled time.  Lord, make me a channel of your peace.

Doria Pizzotti is a long time friend. We share having older husbands on their second marriages and kids and grandkids about the same ages. Our families have celebrated many holidays together. When our girls were about eight, the Lowell Sun dubbed them the handmaidens of handwashing in a caption about Passover. Her husband’s question, “When do we eat” for Passover is legendary. As an ordination present she hand made a needlepoint kippah with an Israeli memorah and a peace dove on it. Many nights sitting around a table we have discussed peace.

Paul has a point. That first cup of morning coffee can bring peace. Whether I am sipping it fresh from my Keruig or I get it at Starbucks, that first sip brings an “ah moment.” If I am in the right emotional space, I remember to thank G-d, and all the little people who made that cup possible.

Modah ani lefanecha, melech chai v’kayam, sheheharzarta b nishmashi, bechemla, rabbah emunatecha. I thank you G-d. I thank you God, Living and Eternal King, for returning my soul to me, filled with Your trust. I thank you G-d for allowing me to wake up.

Or the ee cummings variant on the theme:

i thank You God for most this amazing 
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any–lifted from the no
of all nothing–human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

e.e. Cummings

If I am thinking about the people who brought the cup of coffee to me, I remember the Girl Scout grace: “Back of the bread is the flour, and back of the flour is the mill, and back of the mill is the wind and the rain and the Father’s will.”

There is a shortened version of Birkat Hamazon, the grace after meals, that appears in the Talmud. Hazzan Jack Kessler and Rabbi Shefa Gold has set it to music http://velveteenrabbi.blogs.com/blog/files/brich.mp3

“Brich rachamana, malka d’alma, malcha d’hi’pita. You are the Source of life for all that lives and Your blessing flows through me.””

One year at a retreat for the Academy for Jewish Religion, Rabbi Suri Krieger layered the tune with words like this: “We are grateful for the people who cooked this meal, who wash the dishes, who serve it to us. We are grateful for the people who grew the food and harvested it. We are grateful for rain in its seasons and the sun to warm the earth. We are grateful for being here, for being part of community, for being alive.”

If I have used my purchasing power correctly than I have purchased fair-trade, organic, kosher coffee. I have not used the disposable, plastic Keurig cups. Instead I have used one I can recycle—either the ones that are like cheesecloth or the ones that are refillable. We have those in stainless and in plastic. Then I compost the grounds.

Can a cup of coffee bring peace? I hope so. On a personal level, when I sit on my deck, steaming cup of coffee in hand, take a deep breath in and hear the birds. On the local level, when I meet a friend for coffee and we discuss the issues of the day. We might laugh together or we might cry. And on the macro-level. When Jews, Christians and Muslims come together to grow coffee. That’s what Delicious Peace coffee is. A coffee collective in Uganda of Jews, Christians and Muslims. That’s peace.

Off to find that first cup of coffee at a program called Java and Jews! Come find me at Starbucks.