I have been thinking about Moshe Holtzberg lately. Moshe is the son of Gavriel and Rivkah Holtzberg. Gavriel and Rivkah were two of the 171 people killed in the attacks on Mumbai last week. Moshe was spared when his nanny, Sandra Samuel, herself hiding from the gunmen in a closet, heard the boy, went to him and rescued him from the horror of the attacks. Moshe is two. My daughter Catherine is two. Stuff like that hits close to home for me.
Rabbi Holtzberg and his wife did good work for the world. They led an effort called Chabad House, a Jewish outreach center in Mumbai. This was an outreach effort that taught Torah classes, kept kosher food ready, ministered to Jews traveling for business or pleasure, provided humanitarian aid, a prison chaplaincy, medical services, women’s groups, drug prevention classes, an after school programs, and a free internet café. I struggle to find the reason to kill anyone, much less two people trying to put good into the world. I struggle to make sense out of terrorist attacks, especially ones directed at people simply providing shelter and food. Rabbi Holtzberg and his wife did ministry, like me and my wife. They just did it in Mumbai. The Holtzbergs sought the good. They loved. They brought Moshe into the world. They died in a horrible way.
The world that the Miller’s occupy and that the Holtzberg’s occupied is separated by thousands of miles and multiple cultures. No doubt Hasidic Judaism and Moderate Anglicanism look completely different to each other in everything from theology to dress codes. No doubt Mumbai and West University Place look completely different to each other in everything from street plans to coffee houses. Language wise, the mix of English, Hebrew and Hindi would separate the Holtzberg’s and the Miller’s even more. What would unite us, what does unite us, miles away languages apart, and culturally opposite, what does unite us are the simple words, “Comfort ye, oh comfort ye my people, says your God.” I struggle to find the meaning of this senseless killing a young rabbi and his wife, of the attack that left 171 people dead. And in my struggle to understand why, I see a nanny, frightened and horrified, I see her scooping up a young child and ferrying him away to safety. I see her, running, holding the boy close, running away from the danger to a place of safety. “Comfort ye, or comfort ye my people says your God.” I cannot explain the acts of violence and the desires of one people to kill another. I do not have that kind of understanding. But I do understand compassion. And I do understand that God is bigger than I am. I do understand that in the middle of tragedy is often the most graceful of places. I do understand that a frightened woman did a brave thing by saving a two-year old boy. In the middle of tragedy God is there. In the middle of the worst possible scenario, God is there, scooping us up, and running us to safety.
I feel pretty secure in my situation right now, yet I live in fear that I might lose my children or my wife in some tragic way. I feel pretty solid in my financial position right now, but the money could stop tomorrow and like many, we are always about six months away from being homeless and destitute. I feel confident in my health and wellbeing, but there are no guarantees. Life is like that. Just the way it is, from West University to Mumbai, we live in an existence that is tenuous at best. And in the middle of tragedy the image of the brave woman running with a frightened child sticks with me as an example of the kind of God we proclaim.
"Here is your God!"
See, the Lord GOD comes with might,
and his arm rules for him;
his reward is with him,
and his recompense before him.
He will feed his flock like a shepherd;
he will gather the lambs in his arms,
and carry them in his bosom,
and gently lead the mother sheep.
In the middle of hatred, is God. In the middle of killing, is God. In the middle of pain and suffering, is God. In the middle of Advent, this second Sunday, is the reminder of the proclamation of faith that we all make, God is in the midst of us, St. Paul asks the Romans, “if God is for us who can be against us? He writes further, “5Who will separate us from the love of Christ? …38For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, 39nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
The Holtzberg’s proclaimed their own belief in God, and it cost them their lives. And yet, in the middle of their death their child was spared. I cannot help but see this boy as a symbol of God’s goodness and St. Paul’s words. I cannot help but see the bravery of Sandra Samuel as a symbol of living and giving for all of us to see ad embody. The risk to save someone else’s child, someone else’s people, the risk of your life to save another, here is God’s call in Advent, a voice crying out in the wilderness. A proclamation of faith. A voice calling you and me to safety, to meaning, to hope, to a life in the middle of death. To life in the middle of Advent. To a kind of being that would have us save the other at great risk to ourselves.
Because the world is indeed weary, and we do indeed need comfort. Too often we are Moshe, helpless and alone in the middle of tragedy and we can also be Sandra, frightened and scared but courageous and valiant. We proclaim a God who desires to save us, who seeks us out in the middle of our lives, who calls to us, who finds us, who risks with us, holding us close finding us when we do not think we could be found. Here is our God, running to safety carrying us close. Here is our God, loving us, hearing us, comforting us. Here is our God in the middle of the worst thing we can imagine, a God who leads us to safety, to shelter, to salvation. A living God, a loving God. A God incarnate. Our God. Amen
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