By Dan Goldblatt

I ARRIVED AT THE SYNAGOGUE WITH LULAV AND ETROG IN HAND. I GOT A CALL ON MY Palm Pilot from a woman who was going to help lead the service with drumming, body percussion, and a rhythmic grounding of the tefillah. She was coming from a nearby town and wasn't sure if she had the directions right. My mind wandered ... East, West, North, South, Heavenward, Ground of Being. I assured her that she was properly directed and told her how delighted I was that she was coming on this evening of Sukkot to help us better embody the tefillah; to take us closer to our own hearts after we had come through the intensity of the yamim noraim, the Days of Awe, where we had beat out the rhythms on our chests, where we had been doing heart ... beats to call ourselves back, to try to return to our natural internal rhythms.

I turned off my Palm Pilot, and grasped the lulav. I greeted people as they arrived with the usual hugs, welcoming them into sanctuary heart to heart. I noticed that the lulav caught their attention, a strange, vaguely familiar visitor into the sacred space. It was splayed on the amud, the Torah table, hadasim and aravot branching out from the spinal palm. The etrog, all wrapped up in its box, waiting in the wings to make its star appearance. I watched the children look at the lulav, quizzical, wondering ... this collection of tree limbs sitting in such a place of honor--the Torah's place.

A soft niggun calls the kahal to awareness. Our lovely drummer catches everyone's attention. Signals from a long ago place. A story flashes through my consciousness like an unexpected guest. It is an African story from centuries ago:

One day, the drummers of a large village were sitting near the shore, listening to the sea washing up against the edge of their world, listening to the natural rhythms to learn better how to connect their people to the ground of being. They were the holders of sacred wisdom of their people. They provided the pulse for celebrations, the orchestral backing for movement and dance, the essential canvas and connective tissue for all sacred stories. They knew the sounds that allowed for grieving and were able to hold the space for the deepest pain and most profound loss. They were the keepers of the soul music of their people, among them the shamans, the spiritual guides. As they sat together, all of them, the wizened elders and the youngest initiates, they heard other sounds, people approaching.

Out of the tall trees to the north came a large group of strange men, armed and clearly in the hunt. The drummers felt the danger in their viscera and turned to make their escape; these were the dreaded slavers, and the drummers their intended prey. As they turned to run, they saw another group of foreigners, brigands, coming out of the forest from the south and from the west. They were trapped, caught; every drummer, every one. To fight was to die, and some joined their ancestors rather than being taken. It ended quickly. The elders who would never survive the trip were killed on the spot. All the others were tethered like livestock and led away, leaving their precious drums, the work of their hands, wood and skins--sacred instruments--scattered, abandoned on the sand. Before they could even grasp the tragedy, they were loaded onto the ship like cargo, thrown into the depths of the ship's hold.

Lost, disconnected, grieving for their families and loved ones, they made the voyage, beating out the soul-wrenching sounds against the wooden, walls of their seagoing prison.

The ancient wisdom would survive through them in their enslavement, but who would understand? Who would comprehend the subtle drumbeats, the powerful language of drumming hand, of sacred, tribal communing?

Drumbeats rouse me from this reverie. Our percussionist has warmed up the gathering, readying them for our celebration. On this evening of Shabbat and Sukkot, I wonder if we, here now, can possibly connect to our ancient tribal wisdom, so far removed from harvest, from a genuine connection to the earth.

I offer words of welcome and introduce our special musical guest. Before we move more deeply into prayer, before we welcome Shabbat, we will connect to Sukkot with lulav and etrog. I silently consider what it must have been like for a farmer to assemble living symbols of harvest--myrtle and willow, palm and citron. To hold them together must have been so natural, a simple and elegant ritual of gratitude. The harvest gathered--full or lean--another year's growth to be stored for the winter. Sustenance from the Ground of All Being. Produce from good labor. The work of the family, kin, the tribe. Gathered together, after the work was done; to pause, to celebrate, to be together in the deepest appreciation of life.

We are not farmers. Most of us have never even been on a farm. Some of us have gardens, mostly a novelty, a pleasurable indulgence. Knowing nothing of real harvest, we turn to metaphor, reach out to try to make a meaningful connection. I point to the Sukkah outside in the courtyard, and thank the people who erected it for us. We need to be reminded that on this night, when the weather has begun to turn, when the heat of summer has evaporated and the first chill of autumn has descended, that in our own wealthy county, there are more than seven thousand souls who have no home to warm themselves in tonight. They will sleep in cars, in makeshift sukkot under freeway overpasses and other places partly protected from the wind. They are our neighbors without portfolio, alien residents. We have a responsibility to help them survive, because they are the contemporary 'other,' and our deepest teachings are about caring for 'the other.' Some of our grandparents and a few of our parents were 'the other' in other places far away. We talk about surviving the perils of 'otherness' and yet, we have the possibility, the opportunity to do something to ease the burden of our neighbor's alienation and despair. This is the vulnerability that Sukkot is meant to bring us: not simply our own vulnerability, but the exposure of the truly vulnerable in our midst.

I hold the lulav in my hand. Branches gathered. A Jewish divining rod? Showing us a way back to the earth. We hold it in our hands. We bring together fruit and vegetation. How different it is, me standing in front of a hundred people, the only one with a lulav in my hand. I remember growing up in a shul where everyone (every man?) had a lulav and etrog. When we shook together, the whole room was alive with the sound. The shul was transformed into a wild forest of talking palms. It was like a great wind whipped through taking us back to a different time, another place. But now, singular, I hold the lulav for everyone present. The adventurous ones will have their turn, but it is in my hands to shake the lulav, to shake myself. I shake it and the sound is like the whisper of the trees. I remember standing on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon amidst a grove of aspen--white bark poles holding a leafy sea of yellows, reds and golds. Quiet, waiting for the air to signal them--like the baton of the great concertmaster--into percussive wonder. 'Quaking aspen' they are called, but there is another quality, the raucous rattle of living creatures. High altitude trees--trees with definite attitude.

The lulav shakes me into the present moment. I reach towards all that is in front of me, and holding green and pale branches and hard yellow fruit, I bring them into my chest. Trying to take it in. Holding symbols of harvest over my shoulder, behind me, to what is unseen, unknown and still harvest. Right and left, so often words of polarization, brought together, shaking the ground of polarity, of duality.

I raise my lulav, longingly, lovingly, to the heavens: can we maintain our wonder at the Source of all creation being universal, birthing all universes, up and around, often out of reach, inaccessible? Verses of Torah come to me--"But do not say it is in the heavens so that we must go up to the heavens and bring it to us so that we may hear it and respond." Can we stay connected to what we often think of as distant, away from us, skyward, heavenly, and know that it is all here, right now, here, before us, around us, inside us?

Finally, I shake downward, toward the earth, the place of grounding, giver of harvest, mother of nourishment. And I bring it to my heart, this connection so easily forgotten, neglected, despoiled; it is all we have, our nest, our home.

I look around me and wonder if this shaking has reverberated through the room. Has this ritual touched a heart?

The sun has dropped below the horizon. Shabbat is patiently waiting for our holy light. Candles need to be kindled. Just before the lighting, I gently lay down the lulav, and hold up the etrog. Knowing few will actually dare to shake the lulav during the holiday out of not knowing, I promise that before the night is out, I will bring the startling smell of the etrog to every nose in the sanctuary, and for one brief moment, the blessing of harvest will be breathtaking.

EDITORS NOTE: For the benefit of our non-Jewish readers, we've included a short glossary.

Sukkah--a temporary shelter erected for the celebration of Sukkot

etrog--citron

aravot--two willow branches

hadassim--three myrtle branches

lulav--palm branch; also refers to the aravot, hadassim and lulav gathered and held together

tefillah--prayer

kahal--community

niggun--rhythmic wordless melody

shul-synagogue

Dan Goldblatt has been rabbi of Beth Chaim Congregation in Danville, CA for the past 15 years. He serves on the Boards of Aleph: the Alliance for Jewish Renewal and OHALAH: The Association of Rabbis for Jewish Renewal.