By Rabbi Joey Wolf, November 11, 2016 (The next time the moon will be this close is in 2034.)

I cry out to you looking for healing.

Lift me up.  A tower, a penthouse on a broad avenue, just for a moment.

I know this is a moment:  in time, a period of years, a political season. 

And moments don’t last forever, God knows.  We’ve all had our moments. 

But under this bowl of soup in the sky I’m drowning with your light

it is milky-white and irrefutable and I turn away and

even when I’m awake I’m doleful a panhandler empty-handed

distraught:  I’ve got explanations for everything but not for this.

The sun will come up, I know.

I’ve always said that to anyone who’d listen, like a hit tune you’d hear

for the first time where did that come from?

Reassurances are everywhere, in choruses like Halleluyah and

his love is everlasting.  To the point that

we never thought we’d be in this place and we’re scared.

(It’s always been like this, indigenous and undocumented, descendants of slaves tell us,

what do they tell us, um um?

Just look at the economy, the backyard pollution the depletion of our

best nature, we’re all in chains and there’s a master.)

You know, I’ve been for the most part

rock-solid, cock-sure, indolent, sitting on top of the world.

Now, God, in this moment I’m desperate for your help.

Loosen this sackcloth of lies and taunts and ruptured syntax.

Turn my mourning into choreographed action.

Unclench my fists curl my fingertips into

the embrace of brothers and sisters in resistance.

May I bank my dreams in heaven’s vault full of praises,

loving in so many ways and orders and algorithms

we can’t even imagine for the world we will make

in truth, fiercely, with kindness more precious than marble and gold.