Exile

A sadness sits on the human heart, which Judaism names galut or exile.  That sadness stems from a series of anguished separations: the closing of the way to Eden, the failure of human language, the burning of Jerusalem, the loss of our mother's comforting arms and breast.  How we respond to the loneliness of exile is a great test and measure of our humanity.

            "Shalom, shalom" cried the prophet Isaiah, "for the far and for the near."   We usually think of exile as a problem of distance.  Sometimes, however, we are confronted with a more intensely painful exile of proximity.

            In 2,000 years of dispersion, the Jewish people adapted to the problem of distance, developing highly refined rituals of memory and imagination to carry our souls across time and space to each other.  "By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion."  In the midst of the sadness of distance, we wondered aloud "how can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" and the question itself became our next song.

            More difficult is our exile from those to whom we are closest: the neighbor next door with whom we cannot communicate, the sullen child or abusive parent, the partner in our bed from whom we have grown estranged.  In the exile of proximity, sadness can turn to bitterness, anger and hatred.  At its worst, the psychic ache of separation becomes brutally physical, as souls in torment punish their partners in exile.

The last Jewish century brought to a violent climax the old hatreds of Central and Eastern Europe and carried us "home" to our ancient promised land of Israel, and to America, the "golden country."  Many hoped that the heroic settlements in America and in Zion might solve the problem of exile.  We now see that we have traded the old melancholy dispersions and hostile proximities for new ones.

            Humanity is always looking for relief from our sadness.  Contemporary life offers its array of remedies: the hypnotizing spell of liquid crystal display screens, the adrenaline surge of a sports contest or a military adventure, the fairy-tale promise of uncomplicated romantic love. 

There are, to be sure, many heartfelt expressions in Jewish tradition of longing for an end to the painful exile, to our alienation from each other and from God.  But a quiet voice at the heart of Judaism assures us that the divine presence is with us in our exile, and even hints at a connection between galut, exile, and hitgalut, revelation. 

That voice encourages us not to seek to deny nor to eradicate the sadness of exile, but instead to reach out to each other in the wilderness of our loneliness with healing words of truth, apology and forgiveness. 

In that courageous and honest exchange, we may yet hear the prophetic words: "Shalom! Shalom! For the far and for the near."