(return to Shekhinah: the Presence)
Click on the image to your right >>
to purchase Shekhinah: the Presence. >>
Section 7 of “Shekhinah: The Presence” by Joseph Zitt
This is an unedited scan of the text, courtesy of Josh Ronsen
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
These ancient walls
These silent speaking stones
These wooden seatbacks
worn smooth
by the books and hands
of generations
In the haze of words and tones
of our leader's repetition
we float our souls
in search of others
similarly focused
to Brooklyn
to Vilna
to Yemen
to Jerusalem
to the chambers by the Western Wall
to the place that,
when all places become one,
will be the one place
these places become
to the place where the dreamworld
the world to come
the world from which
we were called here
summoned to take on
temporary flesh
brushes closest to
this world in which we breathe
Step up to the Western Wall,
facing east
(we pray at what was
the outside of the temple,
the inside having drawn the faithful
of other faiths
of other tastes of God
to establish their own
solemn sacred domains within),
kiss the stones,
slide a bit of paper in
within the cracks
between the massive bricks
where so many others
have inserted their own prayers
in hopes that God will read
these small requests
with greater interest,
step back one step,
turn left, and face
another wall
of arches,
doorways,
gates,
and somewhat less ancient stone.
Walk through the nearer arch.
Here: a small chamber
dressed in stone on stone.
Wooden bookshelves line its walls,
filled with well-worn volumes:
books of prayer,
books of law,
psalms,
mysteries, and
commentaries.
Lift one book down.
Open it: the pages are yellow, brittle,
brought from a town that no longer lives
a town whose ashes
and the ashes of its citizens
still drift in the air over
Poland, Hungary, Austria
still sting the eyes,
still trigger sudden tears
for those (now older, now scattered)
who survived the war
(and few recall the gentle storms
whose raindrops caught the ashes
souls
letters
and carried them back to earth
grounding the microscopic angels
who were guiding them to Jerusalem.
Listen: in the dim silence
of dawn-lit desert roads
you can hear them
walking back eastward
to ascend again to heaven
from the welcoming shadow
of the Temple Mount.)
Walk on, walk forward
a few steps more, another archway
then a cavelike hall extending to the left
from which echo remnants
of the voices and students
present, past, and yet to come
who sit within cavern-rooms
by the light of candles
by the light of the sun
and argue fine points
of the laws and mysteries
again and again
(The walls have heard
these arguments so frequently
that the stones themselves have memorized
the cases, counterpoints, and deductions.
Look closely: the veins of rhetoric and logic
are embedded deep within
the porous rock.)
Do not turn there;
walk forward, walk on.
To your right: grate-covered shafts
expose more of the Western Wall
down to where the ground had been
when Solomon built it there.
To your left: another bookcase
more volumes
some different
but mostly the same
and small signs urging that you treat
the books and rooms
with due proper respect for
their sanctity and antiquity.
Ahead again, again to the left:
another arch, another gate.
Iron bars run floor to ceiling,
to the smoothly curved arch
set in time-cooled stone.
The gates are open,
swung back into corners,
welcoming us within.
We have arrived.
Before us: The Arks
up a series of steps
stand
dressed in fine, polished wood
wearing curtains of velvet
of golden braid
with golden threaded
letters and images
lions
tablets
quotations
Touch the curtains gently:
the softness of velvet
caresses our fingers
the roughness of the golden script
transfers its meaning
from hands to souls to hearts,
in holy braille.
Our eyes, our minds can only see
the edges of the glory;
we open wide our senses
and absorb the moment
the distant sounds
the promise of the Presence
through breath
through touch
through the resonance of centuries
of wanderers and pilgrims
whose prayers,
dreams,
ecstasies
have accumulated here;
the echoes of their souls
still coat the grey stone walls
long after their bodies
no longer walk these roads.
And these Arks,
these cases and curtains,
are echoes of the first holy Ark
that was built in the desert
that contained the twin tablets
of the essence of the law
that traveled to Israel
that went into battle
that came to rest upstairs from here
in the original Temple
in the holiest of places
that was the resting place of the Presence
when she came to stay with us
that disappeared into history
buried, some say, in a hidden mountain
to be retrieved
when the Temple is rebuilt
in the world to come
carried, some say, to the world of dreams
where we will gather
where time is silent
where the rivers carry angels
to and from our world of flesh.
Look now;
Feel;
Lay your hands upon the curtains;
Grasp and follow the opening cords:
In this moment, all Arks are one.
We concentrate on the moment
with a focus greater than reality.
We look beyond the present
beyond these chambers in Jerusalem
beyond the prayer hall
where we still also stand.
All images merge:
the curtains from a single canopy of velvet
its folds waving in and out
of the three mundane dimensions
its length, its texture, its embrace
wider, deeper than the sky
a single glowing golden thread
creating, joining all the letters
symbols
images
into a single pictogram
which, if we could but pronounce it,
would join all of the holy Names
into a single syllable of joy
and at its center
(that is-
everywhere)
the image of the original Ark
On its curtain, infinitely tall,
portrayed in gold,
their bodies closer to ideal
than any human artist's
craft, conception, calculation,
Cherubim--angels, intermediaries--
stand and wit
infinitely patient
listening to heaven
formed from the souls of clouds
(Male and female he created them)
They need not speak;
the Ofanim, the Seraphim
call out, at times,
bless the Blessed
from his holy place.
From this holy place,
the Cherubim need not call;
the Presence is forever here
and thus they stand
side by side
their contact sign enough
of their love of the Presence
of their love of each other
of their love of humankind.
Approach the Ark, then,
(in the hall of prayer,
in Jerusalem,
in the near and distant
world of dreams)
touch the shoulder of a cherub
the cord of a curtain
the place within your heart
which leads you to
what rests inside the Ark,
open the gates,
the everlasting doors,
that we may see the mysteries
that lie concealed within,
and the doors, the curtains,
at the breath of a touch
from our solemn, exultant leader,
part and open wide for us
like frost on a mirror
at the warming exhalation
of one who is still alive
like the water of the Sea of Reeds
before Moses's unyielding staff
like the thighs of a long-accustomed lover
at a gentle touch
a familiar embrace
And we gaze within and see
The Scroll of the Law,
covered, also, in velvet
lettered, also, in threads of gold
the fine-lathed spools,
her arms and legs,
crafted from the richest wood
her cool skin
formed from the purest of parchment
the meticulous letters,
the black pools of eyes
glistening upon the
pale white background
reading us as we read from her
a slender silver arm reaching downward
guiding us to see the words
from which we draw our life.
Carefully, now, our leader
embraces
then raises the scroll,
bringing her out
from the eternal womb of the Ark
into the merely physical
light of the now-risen sun
(The Cherubim part,
then move silently around our leader
and crouch before us,
silent guardians of the Holy Word)
and gently, slowly, evenly,
with the strength and balance gained
by uncounted years
of practice and devotion,
lifts
the scroll into the air,
shining her pearl-sheen light upon us
as we rise to greet
the unveiling of her Words
with scattered unison
whisperings of our own,
raising her closer to the skies
as she brings the breath of heaven
closer to our lives
and inspires the spark of the Eternal
and buried deep within us
to burn more strongly
to melt another fraction
of the husks of darkness
that surround and mask the sparks
that make our world remain distant
from the world of dreams
then, again slowly, again gently,
brings her back down
back to the grasp
of those of us who honor her
back down to our realm to accept our kiss
but we dare not kiss her directly, no,
lest she be defiled by the lips of those of us
who have allowed words of evil,
of human hurt,
distrust, and battered truth
to be formed by them
to pass between them
lest her holy glow of love burn our mouths
making us as slow of speech as Moses
with no inspired, willing Aaron
to speak of us the words we try to mean
and so we clutch the corners of
our prayer shawls in our trembling hands
as, as she passes,
kiss the cloth, and the fringes on it,
then touch it softly to her velvet cloak.
And, having travelled, having blessed
the perimeters of our sacred hall,
she rests
relaxed on her back on the reading desk,
its surface covered, also, in velvet,
its fringes, also, threads of gold.
Carefully we remove her silver ornaments:
her crown, circles with subtle filigree,
rests on a platform by the Ark;
her pointer, her hand,
olive wood with silver chain,
the leader holds,
preparing for the reading.
Cautiously we raise her again
from her resting place,
and remove her cloak ,
slowly, smoothly.
Upwards our hands slide it,
along the smooth firmness
of her parchment torso
over the slender symmetry
of her dark wood spools and arms.
We lay her down again,
and roll the columns outwards,
exposing her night-black text
and pale white skin
to the eastern light
of the glass-refracted sun
to the cooling breezes
of dim Jerusalem halls
to our loving gaze
and shyly tender touch
as the leader extends a well-trained hand
that holds the simple pointer
and its own silver hand.
We shall begin.
"And may his kingship over us be revealed
and become visible soon
and may he be gracious to our remnant
and the remnant of his people
the family of Israel
for graciousness, kindness, mercy, and favor"
And we respond,
"Amen."
Listen, now;
awake from your reveries;
the leader is calling you,
"Descendant of priests,
approach, arise"
speaking a name
that you realize must be your own,
and another name,
which must be your father.
Step up to the reading desk,
slowly, slowly;
in these moments of revelation
you have infinite time.
(The dreamworld is fading for you now;
this temporary flesh
in which you clothed yourself
when called from the river
where you guided the child's ark
toward the Ark of the covenant
where you drifted homeward
summoned by voices of prayer
feels slightly more concrete now,
more confining:
you have been called by your name
and the name of your father.
A lineage has been thrust upon you:
The weight of centuries
now rests on your shoulders;
the decisions of the fathers
delimit the children
far past the tenth generation.
Descendant of priests,
the law has determined
that you are first in line
to be called to read from the holy scrolls
that you may bless the people,
your hands spread in the unseen salute
that so many know
and so few recognize
the Presence resting gently
on your outstretched fingers
that you and your fathers and sons
will be called
in the world to come
in the world beyond dreams
to celebrate the sacrifices
and forgotten rituals
in the third temple
the everlasting hall
the sanctuary, outside of time,
from which the plans
for lesser sanctuaries were drawn.
Thus, by your name encircled,
enabled,
drawn,
defined
you take a deep breath
of this world's air
and move infinitely slowly
to the reading desk
to her resting place
she whom defines all worlds.)
"Bless the Lord, who is blessed!"
Again, your words wrap back upon themselves,
reiterating, restating,
repeating the recursion
"now and in eternity!"
We carry the phrases as before
in a feedback loop of blessing
"who has chosen us from all peoples
and has given us your teaching"
Focus your heart on the text, now,
on the beauty and glory
unrolled before you.
The leader points to the appointed words;
grasp the prayer shawl fringes
in your silent hand
then touch them
to the black, enveloping letters
then kiss them
and listen
and merge your inner voice
with the voice of the leader
with the words that rise
from the holy scroll
from her pale, near-glowing skin,
from her heart.
Clearly, emphatically,
the reader sings out the words of the text,
each vowel, each note, all punctuation
ringing out from memory
unwritten in the text as seen
but deeply etched in tradition
The pointer hand,
olive wood and silver,
a perfect echo of the human hand
that guides it
smoothly, lightly,
along the letters
(black as the pupils
of the eyes of the soul)
traces the text,
revealing the words
that flow up through it
absorbed and transmitted
by the skin
the nerves
the sinews
the blood
the breath
the heart
the voice of the reader
through the air
through the ether
through the light
that underlines all space
that overlays all time
to all out hearts.
And these words
that we hear now
fill the rooms
fill every hidden crevice of silence
that might have been left behind
by the now-departed night.
(Listen: in the light of the fully risen sun
even the crickets have muted their song
in honor of the chant of our leader
of the repetition, the recitation
of the words of the law.)
And when the selection has come to an end
when our leader has finished
the impassioned reading
when the melodies of meaning
find their final major cadence
reach down again,
fingers still wrapped
in the tassels of the shawl
touch the tender scroll again,
then kiss, again, the tassels.
"You are blessed,"
you call out to the Creator
"who gave us these teachings of truth
and planted eternal life in our midst."
And you step back, away,
around to the side of the reading desk
and another approaches,
and another still,
and the scroll waits for their approach,
her columns lying open to their touch,
their kiss,
their prayers
and she gives of her words,
her light, her love,
equally to all
who come to her with open hearts,
who call to her with willing souls.
Then, all readings complete for the day,
(though the reading, the learning
is never complete,
and the words cycle endlessly
as the dawn whispers across the planet,
as the years draw us around the sun,
as, on this day in other ages,
our fathers, our children,
have read, will read,
the same pages, the same texts,
from physically different scrolls,
letter for letter, point for point,
the same
as the original letters, inscribed at Sinai,
in black fire on white fire
on pages of stone,
burning through the ages,
all scrolls joined end to end
across dimensions,
flowing, black pools of letters
endlessly deep,
sacred scrolls all joined at the text)
our leader softly grasps the scroll's dark wood limbs
rolls her columns close again, together,
and raises her, again, high into the air.
"She is a tree of life for those who hold her,"
we chant, "and those who support her
are filled with joy.
All her ways are pleasant;
all her paths are peace."
"And may it be the will," our leader replies,
"of our Father who is in heaven
to establish the Temple, the home of our lives,
and to restore his PResence among us,
speedily,
in our time."
Then we all join the leader,
and together,
quietly,
chant
"Amen."
And our leader
lowers her, evenly
with the perfect balance
born of perfect faith
and cradles her,
head resting
in comfort, in love,
against her solid side,
nestling the other side
in the crook of an arm,
right hand lightly grasping
her finely lathed spindle leg,
and circles, again, the congregation,
and again we kiss the scroll by proxy
hand wrapped in tassels,
tassels touched to lips,
kiss transferred by tassels' touch
to our beloved
to our law
And you sit upon the simple chair
provided on the podium
and the leader rests the scroll
in your waiting arms,
her back resting against your chest
(breathe lightly, now,
so that you won't disturb her),
her slender legs straddling your thigh,
her weight against you,
heavier than flesh
but still warm with comfort.
"May it be the will
of our Father who is in heaven,"
the congregation meditates
on ancient words again,
their silence again the scattered unison
of the individual,
the universal,
as the leader continues the litany of wishes:
"to have mercy on us,
on those of us who still remain to worship...
to keep destruction and plague
from us and from all his people...
to preserve among us our sages,
their mates,
their children,
their disciples and
the students of their disciples...
that we may be told of good tidings
of deliverance and comfort...
that he gather the dispersed
from the four corners of the Earth...
that he may have mercy on our brethren
who are handed over to distress and captivity,
on the sea or on dry land,
and may bring them
from darkness to light,
from servitude to liberty,
speedily, soon..."
Focus, again:
The Ark again is open,
the Cherubim by its edges, waiting,
the velvet throne room
coffin
womb
awaiting her return.
Sense, feel, open your eyes:
she must return soon to her home.
Cautiously the leader
lifts her forward,
tightens, again, her columns together,
ties the narrow sash around her waist,
lifts the gold-threaded velvet cloak
and lowers it over her arms,
over her torso,
sliding it softly
along her smooth sides
till it rests about her,
balanced on her shoulders,
rests the silver-olive pointer hand
suspended from her limbs,
and places her ornamented,
filigreed crown
as a completion of her beauty,
her glory.
The leader takes her from you
(you wish to hold on
but know that would be futile;
there are laws, commands, and rituals,
and to depart from them
would hurt the one whose life,
whose giving of life,
is dearest to your heart)
and moves with her
but in your love
(in the blindness of your love)
you no longer see the leader,
and the scroll dances alone
a dance of heaven, a dance of magic,
a dance that newborns know,
but, as they learn to walk
like other men,
forget,
the dance that is the way that angels move
in the world to come,
the world of dreams,
a dance of words
that dance without words.
In silence you observe her motion
and wish that you could comprehend
for in her footsteps are spelled out
all the mystic names of God.
Then, murmuring (again the scattered unison)
with all who worship in the sacred hall
(and in Jerusalem
and all the places that will
someday be as one)
you prepare for her departure
with words of psalms:
"This is the generation of those
that seek the Lord,
who yearn for the Presence...
Gates, raise up your heads,
Be uplifted, ancient door..."
We must conclude.
Look:
The room seems almost empty, still,
the whispering surrounding you
not revealing the sight of any others.
The Cherubim, now still as wood,
are as if they were part
of the Ark themselves
and you move to join them,
and you touch the Ark,
stroke its wood, its velvet
trace the markings
in golden-threaded braille
and its spirit flows into you,
merges with you,
and in your reverie
you become the Ark
become the sacred home
wear the eternal flame
as a signpost upon your brow
and the scroll rests with you,
rests on your shoulders,
her ageless ancient legs relaxed,
thighs balanced about you,
legs draped down your chest
like the leather straps
of the boxes of prayers
like the exact fringes
of the shawl
and she closes her eyes,
calms, sleeps,
and the leader shuts the doors,
the Cherubim reassuming their initial position
("She is a tree of life," they sing again,
"for those that hold her,
and those that support her
are filled with joy.")
and in the warmth, the darkness,
the velvet holiness
of the place you have become
you know that,
for the moment,
you have found peace,
that you,
and the scroll of life,
and the Presence,
are as one.
(return to Shekhinah: the Presence)
