הרהורים בנווה מדבר

In the Judean wilderness there is an oasis, a village of rebels. My girl, without being aware of it, gave me a gift. She invited me to spend the weekend with her family—her husband and two young children—at an authentic desert location in the Judean Desert. Not far from Eilat, on the way to Mitzda, where a human-made oasis was created at the end of the twentieth century, lies a settlement called Kfar Nogdim. Wonderful, it jumped without joy; take my camera, named Elimpus, already nearly forgotten in the drawer. With her, I dive deep into the heart of what's happening around me. Kfar Nogdim, the Nogdim see, Kfar HaRo'im. Indeed, I am traveling to my loved ones; after all, I can see them too. I have seen seven children, almost without human help, but certainly with divine assistance, and to this day I continue to see. And the future likely hasn't changed in this regard either. When people ask me how I managed to raise seven children and have them all be so intelligent, I attribute it not to my own efforts alone, but to God's help. I couldn't have done it without you; I suppose every parent sees things in their own way. Around the eighth century BCE, before the exile, there lived a simple Jewish man, close to the heart and of humble status, named Amos, the Tikeo. He saw a gazelle in the wilderness of Judah; it was trembling. The same one God chose and sent to speak to the people about what might happen if they did not change and correct their ways. The prophetic word spoke of false piety, of moral emptiness concealed behind external rituals. He said that God does not accept empty religiosity. In my deeply religious life, I diligently focused on external religious observance at the expense of inner spirituality, and I shattered, broken and weary—but heavenly mercy knows no bounds. Today, the people with whom I have a close relationship consider me and also listen to me, because I do not judge anyone. These are words spoken from the depths of my experience, in which I made countless mistakes without realizing it. I have been granted the opportunity, through the Creator, to awaken to a simple truth. A person must be good and cultivate a big heart within themselves. The word "chayef" obligates me to take responsibility for every word I say and every action I undertake, with wisdom and integrity. To follow that eternal trio: truth, compassion, and patience. When I give people a beautiful handcrafted lotus flower with a note written on it containing those same words, I believe and hope that nothing bad will happen to the person who receives it. When I walk early in the morning through the village of Nokdim, I see the sunrise, photograph it, and am reminded of past lives. I don't know who I was or what I did in past lives; the ability to see the past quickly remains closed to me. But I intuitively feel many things, and various images arise in my mind, which are easier to dress in musical notes than in words. My current place of residence is not far from Tekoa, the place of Amos's prophecy that I mentioned earlier. In the Jerusalem neighborhood of Gilo, bordering Bethlehem, a simple youth named David was born in the tenth century BCE, who would one day become a great king. So the place was called Personal City. A man named Personal lived there with his sons, and the youngest among them was David, who would later become a great king. After three thousand years, music will be upon me, words from his psalms. I will sing one of them. The song of the pillar to the captives I called out: "New things, new things, hear my voice." How is your ear, the connection to every prayer. If the girls keep it up, new things, years. As a measure, sorry, for the sake of peace, please, new, suddenly my soul. My soul, to the harpists, keepers of the morning, keepers of the morning. Israel longs to be like the dew, for she is the dew of kindness, and many nations will be refreshed by it. And He will separate Israel from all of His other daughters. After a thousand years, the small settlement called Bethlehem by prophecy will become a real city, Bethlehem. And after another two thousand years, I will stand at the window of my small fourth-floor apartment, facing that same Bethlehem. Jesus and David were born there, and not far from there flowed the stream of Amos. I captured the dazzling sunrise, inexplicably occurring precisely at a late hour in winter, right where I live. My thoughts about Jesus are always accompanied by sorrow. Not like a shepherd of a single flock, but like a shepherd of many peoples shall Jesus be to the shepherds of many peoples, and He shall give His body as a sacrifice for the atonement of the sins of those whose shepherds He is. To continue living, hoping that in the end, good will prevail. No words can describe the pain that Jesus endured. In His last prayer before His arrest, He said, This jerk will pass by me, and then add, Not as I wish, but as You wish. My inner voice struggles with the lack of agreement that in this fleeting and fragile world, The fate of the great leaders and prophets who came to save the people. What was Jesus' crime, that he had to suffer a shameful death by crucifixion at the age of 33? And why did not the Lord even have mercy on His own son? Moments of countless peoples, written by hundreds of composers over more than five hundred years, They tried to convey in music the pain that cannot be described in words. Even the transition to another world. Rest in peace. Requiem Aeternam Dona EIS, Domine. Grant them eternal rest, O Lord. Why did I specifically remember rabbis at the exact moment I was walking through Kfar Nogdim? Because there is silence in the desert, he remains silent. In his silence there is depth and eternity. The desert is another world, parallel like the world of the other, about which little is known. I can gaze upon the desert from outside, while being located in the orderly oasis, where everything is organized. I can walk a little beyond Noa, take a short stroll, feel a bit hungry, and return. And I think of my dear ones who have passed away. I don't know what I think without words. Often, we sing requiems by different composers in our chapel ensemble, and they all differ from one another. Even though the text is the same canonical text. Now we are studying Gabriel Fauré's Requiem. This is the clearest and most serene of all the requiems, reminding me of desert music. Even if it removed the most frightening part from the canonical text, the Yom Kippur War. He did not write his requiem for a moment of death, but said that they wrote it for his funeral. And he added that he views death as liberation, as a place of supreme happiness. The subtle harmony of his music, the flowing melodies, They truly evoke a sense of peace; the music seems to float, and you float with it. It's not scary. At a certain point, I felt tired, so I called my Olympus companion; he didn't let me down. I placed him in my hand and sat in meditation. There were no people speaking around me, but the wind played its melody. About 40 minutes later, I felt like a quiet voice. Keep your eyes open. I opened my eyes and saw from a distance a striking procession, and on its box was written Millennium group and a phone number nearby. I think the subtitles on this screen, and the sound of the desert wind, reminded me of something important. The new millennium has already begun, and everything should be different in the best sense of the word.