This past Tuesday marked the 150th
Anniversary of Lincoln’s delivery of the Gettysburg address. It was a well-crafted speech written as a
dedication of what became the Soldier’s National Cemetery in Gettysburg,
Pennsylvania. Despite the Emancipation Proclamation
at the start of that year and the success of the Union soldiers at Gettysburg
just months prior, the war would rage for another year to year and a half
before a Confederate surrender. There
would continue to be too much blood shed and too many lives lost before the
Civil War would come to its conclusion.
I was reminded of this milestone
anniversary of the Gettysburg Address listening to NPR on Tuesday. I might have paid little notice to it,
though, if it hadn’t been for experiencing Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem just
days prior.
Last Saturday evening, I was nothing
short of blown away by a superb production of Britten’s War Requiem. Now full disclosure, I’m sure part of what
contributed to my being “blown away” was the fact that my daughter was among
those selected to sing in a teen choir that sang the Boys Chorus parts. That was awesome! But, proud parent moment
aside, this was the first time that I experienced the entire composition live,
and I was deeply moved by the work. Though not a Jewish work by any means, it
served as a poignant reminder that we – Jews too – often have our priorities
mixed up in terms of what and how we remember and how we mark communal loss.
Britten takes the traditional Latin
funeral Mass, a deeply religious, specifically Catholic memorial text and
combines it with the English poetry of Wilfred Owen, an officer in the British
Army during World War I who wrote expressively and honestly about the human
experience of war before being shot himself just days before Armistice Day. He was 25. The juxtaposition of the
religious Mass text and Owen’s insightful and graphic poetry provide Britten a
canvas on which to convey the reality of war: its horror, brutality, and
ultimate futility. He, of course, was
speaking of World War II. He could have just as easily been speaking of our
nation’s Civil War, a war that despite the ideals Lincoln insisted upon, still
on the ground ravaged our country and caused too many individuals and families
to become intimately acquainted with violence.
Hearing Britten’s War Requiem just
days before the anniversary of the Gettysburg Address underscored a sad irony.
“Four score and seven years ago our
fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation.” How many of us memorized
these words. In speaking about the blood shed, the horror,
that took place on the very land he was called forth to dedicate, Lincoln said,
“…The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far
above our poor power to add or detract.
The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it
can never forget what they did here….”
I dare say that the power of
Britten’s work lies in the very fact that we too well can forget. Lincoln was mistaken. We have preserved the words of his dedicatory
address well. I’m not so sure we have
done as good a job in remembering what he believed we could never forget,
namely the humanity behind the battles of war.
Next week, we have the remarkable opportunity
to simultaneously celebrate both our Jewish and our American identity. We
value – we cherish -- both. Neither has
come without cost, without a cost born mostly by others who came before us. As we prepare to light the candles in our Chanukiah and gather for our Thanksgiving feasts,
let us take a moment to reflect on the sacrifices so many have made in an
effort to forward their and our ideals. May we
never become blind to the efforts and even the blood-shed that allowed for this
country to be a safe place for us, the Jewish community. May we never become blind to the efforts of
those who fought and continue to work for racial and gender equality in this
country and abroad.
Moreover, as we reflect, may we
remember the mandate of Lincoln’s address, “It is for us, the living… to be dedicated
here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly
advanced. It is rather for us to be here
dedicated to the great task remaining before us…that we take increased devotion
to that cause for which they gave their last full measure of devotion….” Almost a century after
Lincoln’s address, and not longer after the horror of World War II and the
Korean War, John F. Kennedy challenged us again to step forward, “let’s begin,”
he exclaimed, “let’s begin” to tackle the unfinished work of accepting responsibility for the
problems that humanity has created and that ail us – all of us.
To paraphrase Peter Yarrow’s popular Chanukah
song, we must not let the light of Lincoln's or Kennedy's ideals diminish. As we conclude this week of remembering
speeches, may we remember the actions that inspired them.
We do grave dis-service to their memory and the memory of those whose
lives were lost in war if we be anything but motivated to continue to work
towards equal opportunity in our country for all peoples. We
must work to ensure that religious freedom extends to all, and that no one
remains enslaved and shackled. This is
our duty – as Americans. This is our
duty as Jews.
