opinion
Pan Am 103: Prisoners of Hope
By Rabbi Charles S. Sherman
Air Accident Investigation Branch / Wikki Commons
O n Dec. 11, I awoke to the stunning news that the
man accused of making the bomb that killed 270
people in 1988, the Lockerbie bombing, was now in
custody. On Dec. 21, 1988, I was the senior rabbi of the
largest synagogue in Central New York. It was a
cold, blustery, uneventful early morning until “that
phone call.” It was from Syracuse University, inform-
ing me of the bombing.

I was told that, among the 270 people killed, 35
were Syracuse students flying home for Christmas
after a semester abroad. The Jewish chaplain, a col-
league and good friend, was already on his way to
JFK to be of assistance. The university, with its large
world footprint, wanted and needed to bring its
community together almost immediately and asked
if I would represent the Jewish community.

Thirty-four years later, now living in Elkins Park, I
clearly remember putting down the telephone, sob-
bing uncontrollably, a transformative moment, one
of the most difficult days of my life as a pulpit rabbi
— and not exactly sure if I had the content and com-
posure to offer the necessary wisdom and context.

The bombing, of course, was a tragedy for every-
one on board and their loved ones. But when so
many young students, at the prime of their lives,
were taken, it was especially jarring and unbeliev-
able; all of their dreams and potential were gone in
seconds. That evening, Hendricks Chapel, a very impressive
centerpiece of the Syracuse campus just steps away
from the better-known Carrier Dome, was over-
flowing; there were students, faculty and members
of the larger community — thousands of people,
seated and standing in the aisles and thousands
more on the campus in silence, in pain and disbelief.

Inside the chapel, every faith tradition was repre-
sented. Leaders from different traditions and beliefs
were all there for the same purpose — sharing the
importance of community, at times of a faceless
community, where people still feel connected by a
culture of reciprocal responsibilities.

No political commentary was necessary. The hei-
nous nature of the crime was obvious. And I, a “per-
son of faith,” seized with anger and disappointment,
needed to somehow relay a message of honest
belief and confidence. My immediate response was
one of reassurance.

In part, this is what I said:
“There are certain matters of the soul that will
always defy mathematical or scientific explanation.

We can’t know if there is a heaven or if God exists.

We can’t know why bad things happen to good
people. Humble acceptance of the limitations of our
knowledge is where faith begins. Faith is learning to
live in that zone of discomfort. Faith is learning to
feel at home there. But faith is also action. It is an
act of faith to take what we can know and use it to
fulfill God’s purpose on earth.

“It’s tempting and understandable to say, ‘Why
me? What did I do to deserve this? It’s not fair. It
shouldn’t be this way.’ Yet, such sentiments reveal
more about us than they do about God. When we
say something is not fair or we do not deserve it,
we haven’t sat down with a scale and put our merits
on one side and demerits on the other side to see
our merits outweigh our demerits. No, what we
really mean is: I do not want life this way. I want it
to be the way I want it. The thing is, life comes as
it comes. It is what it is. And faith is our trust in our
ability to handle that which we cannot control. It
is what God has given us to live fully, bravely and
meaningfully in this less-than-perfect world.”
The late Leonard Fein, a friend, was a brilliant
social scientist, a passionate and gifted writer and
a veteran social activist. In trying to cope with
his daughter’s sudden death, a personal tragedy
beyond description — “the permanent presence of
an absence” — he confronted one of the toughest
questions there is: How can we pick up the pieces of
our lives and go on to laugh and love in the after-
math of grievous loss?
“We live neither in the valley of the shadow of death
nor atop the mountain of redemption; that we live
instead in a desert of shifting sands where the best we
can do as we seek to come to a better place and a bet-
ter time is to press our bodies against those who falter
and are about to faint, hold them close and upright
until we come to the next resting place, there to
regather our energy and then to resume the journey.”
The news of the man arrested brought it all back.

On some levels, it is still very fresh for me.

I often wonder how best do we honor those lost
that day? How have we resumed the journey? When
you enter the “quad,” the Syracuse main campus,
bucolic, busy and rooted in tradition, there are some
steps you must climb that lead to a centerpiece
called The Place of Remembrance. It is a semicircu-
lar, extraordinary concrete structure that includes
the names of the 35 Syracuse students who died on
Pan Am 103.

Each year, the Syracuse community gathers in that
sacred space during Remembrance Week for a can-
dlelight vigil and rose-laying ceremony. It reminds
us to look back and act forward in resuming the
journey. For in the end, we are Jews, assirei tikvah (pris-
oners of hope). We suffer with all who suffer; we
remember that we, too, were strangers once, and
more than once; we remember the winding through
the desert; and we know there is not only a prom-
ised land but also a promised time. We know that
they who plant in sorrow will surely one day reap
in joy! JE
Rabbi Charles S. Sherman is the rabbi of Melrose B’nai
Israel Emanu-El in Elkins Park.

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