I don’t know. I don’t know from God.
They say God is the One who shaped the ear. I’ve said it, too. God, the One who gave life listening: Ishmael, God listens, God hears. They say God is near, near to all. I’ve said it, too. Near to all who call upon God in Truth. Where is that, Truth? Near here?
They have names for God: Rock, Redeemer. What shall I call you? And if I call, will you listen, respond?
You are near. I know you are here.
I’m exhausted. You: inexhaustible.
I swoon, wobble. You’re steady.
Are you everything they say God is?
Time, Your most precious gift, they say, talking to God about you.
And here you are: a few moments of silent prayer as the organ softly plays. It’s my favorite moment of the service at Temple Emanuel, the temple of my youth. But the Temple has moved on; it has followed the Jews of Cherry Hill east. You moved with it. I, too, have moved away, and you’ve stayed with me wherever I’ve roamed, settled. I can’t get away from you.