The Morning of the Fire

We were awakened on Saturday morning with the unbelievable news -- the Temple burned; totally destroyed. A man dead in the apartment building next door. There would be a service at nine at the Unitarian Universalist Church up the street.

The city was full of fire trucks and police cars -- streets blocked, nowhere to park. The air was acrid, full of smoke. The site -- our normal, everyday temple had become something other. it was still burning, even while everything was covered in ice and snow.

And yet, to walk into that other house of worship at the normal time and see the people who normally gathered was, even in our raw grief and shock, oddly normal, supremely comforting. We are a community. This is what we do. 

We began by sharing memories. Meredith Fine recalled the massive rafters in the attic, made from ships' masts, the story went. That's what the building was like, she said. Solid. Dependable.

Next came Casey Moir, a high school student. She reminded us that we had just celebrated Channukah, which marks the destruction of the Temple, but includes a miracle -- and the survival of the Jewish people. We are more than just a building, she reminded us. We are a community.

Then the doors opened, and in walked a dozen firefighters in their big yellow outfits. They walked silently, in procession, their hands full of wet, sooty tallises and kipot. They came to the front, stood in front of Rabbi Barth. "This was all we could save," the fire chief said.

We shared our memories, our grief, our hope. Amy Farber remembered how, before the renovation, there was a stage in what became the foyer. The little kids would hide behind the red velvet curtains. "It was annoying at the time," she said, "but now it seems sweet."

Next to speak was Bob Visnick, who began, "I was one of those annoying kids who hid behind the curtains."

At one point, somebody noted that, as we stood up and spoke, no one had to identify themselves. We know each other -- those of us who are newcomers, and those of us who have been at T.A.A. our whole lives. "We are a Kehilah Kedoshah," Rabbi Barth reminded us, "a holy community."

We sang the songs we know so well. We read part of the week's Torah portion. (Jean O'Gorman brought her small Torah. Beth Abraham in Beverly lent us a Torah, siddurim and humashim.) We had something like a service. We had something very like a Kehilah Kedoshah.