Subscribe
Share
Share
Embed
Welcome to Kolot, the podcast of The Ark Synagogue, a bold, experiential and caring Progressive Jewish community in Northwood, London.
Through sermons, reflections and conversations from across our community, Kolot explores Jewish life, learning and values in the world we live in today. Rooted in tradition and open to new perspectives, these episodes bring together voices that inspire thought, connection and belonging.
Whether you are Jewish, exploring Judaism, or simply looking for meaningful reflection, you are warmly welcome.
To learn more about The Ark Synagogue, visit arksynagogue.org.
The Garden of Song, Moses Ibn Ezra
(The Jewish Poets of Spain, Penguin Classics, 1965, p. 104)
All who are sick at heart and cry in bitterness,
Let not your soul complain in grief.
Enter the garden of my songs, and find balm
For your sorrow, and sing there with open mouth.
Honey compared with them is bitter to the taste,
And before their scent, flowing myrrh is rank.
Through them the deaf hear, the stutterers speak,
The blind see, and the halting run.
The troubled and grief-stricken rejoice in them,
All who are sick at heart, and cry in bitterness.
This poem was written by Moses Ibn Ezra, one of four brothers born around the middle of the eleventh century in Granada. None of them are the Ibn Ezra famed for his biblical commentary and philosophy—that was Abraham Ibn Ezra, born in Tudela and later residing in Cordoba.
This Moses Ibn Ezra lived during what was known as a Golden Age of Spain for Jews, because of the riches of intellect, heart, and finance that could be made. As our member Nicolette Porcheron upbraided me, the reality for the vast majority was anything but. Caught between sparring, nefarious local rulers and sweeping conflicts of religions and peoples, they lived in poverty and constant fear—of human, natural, or environmental destruction.
It is believed that Moses Ibn Ezra lived at least part of his life “impoverished and destitute,” and exiled from his home—and it is thought, from his family. He is famed for writing in grief-stricken terms of his banishment (ibid. p.19). If his poem, The Garden of Song, was penned during this time, how could such elation have been sourced—apart from cynically suspecting he was paid well to do so by a wealthy patron?
Still, there is such genuine beauty here for all the senses to explore: the imagery of the garden, the sound of song, the taste of honey, the smell of myrrh, the touch of balm.
We are all mourners—individually, as a household, communally, and as a People. A Yizkor service reminds us of that.
We come together to express and share our grief, and to be, we hope, comforted, consoled, and strengthened—even if only momentarily.
How might we be consoled?
Our rabbis write of examples of well-intentioned comforters who miss the mark. In Avot d’Rabbi Natan (14), Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai is visited by a succession of the greatest rabbinic masters, who remind the mourner of biblical figures who were bereaved.
To each one, Rabban Yohanan replies:
“Is it not enough that I grieve over my own? Do you have to remind me of their grief as well?”
Until Rabbi Eleazar arrives, sits down before him, and says:
“May I tell you a parable? To whom may you be likened? To one with whom the king deposited an object. Each and every day they would weep and cry out, ‘Woe is me! When shall I be safely relieved of this trust?’ You should be comforted, because you have returned unimpaired what was given you in trust.”
Rabban Yohanan said to him:
“Eleazar, my son, you have comforted me the way one should give comfort.”
Perhaps Rabbi Eleazar was the first professional bereavement counsellor.
Each life and each death is unique. Comparison is unhelpful—even when we cite the greatest of people. Life is finite, and to experience life we must also encounter death. Yet we—and every one of our loved ones—are gifts. Our life is a gift, no matter the length of our days.
This morning, we made a choice.
Whilst wars and ceasefires, pandemics and inoculations, the beauty and devastation of nature are out of our control, we took control and chose to be present here.
At Yizkor, we are honoured to sit—as individuals and together—to remember and to mourn, to console and to be comforted. And we are honoured to sit in the Presence of One that we yearn to experience, in or through an Ibn Ezra’s Garden of Song, as we conclude the season of our freedom.
We pray that the Eternal will breathe renewed life (after Ezekiel 37:14) into us, so that we might live fully and sing in harmony with our ancestors as we pass through the seas of life.
And we pray with the words of the Liberal Jewish Prayer Book, for the strength and trust of a Moses Ibn Ezra:
“Eternal One, in our great need for light we look to You…
Eternal Spirit, make Your presence felt among us…
When our own weakness and the storms of life hide You from our sight, teach us that You are near to each one of us at all times, and especially when we strive to live truer, gentler, nobler lives.
Give us trust, Eternal One; give us peace and give us light.
May our hearts find their rest in You.”