ECHOES<\/strong><\/p>\n Slowly I ascend the steps of the synagogue.<\/span><\/p>\n I remember when throngs of worshippers would have been<\/span><\/p>\n at my side<\/span><\/p>\n walking with me<\/span><\/p>\n ages ago.<\/span><\/p>\n The temple has moved to another place.<\/span><\/p>\n As I climb I feel I am saying goodbye to too much.<\/span><\/p>\n I open the door<\/span><\/p>\n carefully<\/span><\/p>\n as if I would otherwise awaken things better left asleep.<\/span><\/p>\n The corridor looks the same, but it no longer leads<\/span><\/p>\n anywhere\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n for a moment I\u2019m not sure I wish to see\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n It hasn\u2019t changed.<\/span><\/p>\n The majestic pulpit still towers over rows and rows of seats,<\/span><\/p>\n yet they are empty.<\/span><\/p>\n I don\u2019t think I\u2019ve ever seen them that way before.<\/span><\/p>\n No bewildered children, no annoyed parents.<\/span><\/p>\n Gone are the old men who have come to cry<\/span><\/p>\n to the One<\/span><\/p>\n they know<\/span><\/p>\n listens.<\/span><\/p>\n The giant stained glass windows still offer their mute message:<\/span><\/p>\n there are no takers.<\/span><\/p>\n The sun continues to shine through them,<\/span><\/p>\n illuminating nothing.<\/span><\/p>\n I stoop to pick up a piece of paper left on the floor\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n a page torn from a prayerbook.<\/span><\/p>\n Its words lament the exile of the children of Israel<\/span><\/p>\n from their land. Two thousand years<\/span><\/p>\n have passed since it was written:<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHow doth the city sit solitary,<\/span><\/p>\n that was full of people!<\/span><\/p>\n How is she become as a widow!<\/span><\/p>\n She that was great among nations and princess among the provinces,<\/span><\/p>\n how is she become as a tributary!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Gently, knowingly, I replace the paper.<\/span><\/p>\n I approach the Aron Kodesh \u2013 the holy ark<\/span><\/p>\n where the Torah scrolls were once kept.<\/span><\/p>\n When the curtain is opened all rise out of respect.<\/span><\/p>\n Slowly I open the curtain:<\/span><\/p>\n no one stands, no one sings.<\/span><\/p>\n There is no reverence for emptiness.<\/span><\/p>\n The holiest place in the synagogue:<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHow is she become as a widow.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Hurt and confused, I shut the curtain.<\/span><\/p>\n I look out upon the seats,<\/span><\/p>\n standing where I stood<\/span><\/p>\n when I first chanted the prayers<\/span><\/p>\n before the congregation.<\/span><\/p>\n years of study in preparation<\/span><\/p>\n for that moment<\/span><\/p>\n and all it meant.<\/span><\/p>\n On that very spot my father told me of his dreams and hopes<\/span><\/p>\n for me.<\/span><\/p>\n Now as I chant those same prayers,<\/span><\/p>\n they echo and fly back to me,<\/span><\/p>\n hollow<\/span><\/p>\n and taunting.<\/span><\/p>\n Rushing toward the exit, I turn back for<\/span><\/p>\n one last<\/span><\/p>\n look.<\/span><\/p>\n I hadn\u2019t noticed it before. The final tribute to<\/span><\/p>\n the remoteness of the past.<\/span><\/p>\n On the pulpit hangs the eternal light, the light that is to burn forever.<\/span><\/p>\n It is out.<\/span><\/p>\n And I leave.<\/span><\/p>\n Outside.<\/span><\/p>\n I take a deep breath of the present.<\/span><\/p>\n And once again,<\/span><\/p>\n the synagogue is empty.<\/span><\/p>\n Except for the piece of myself that I left behind.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n (Rabbi David Wolpe is the senior rabbi of Sinai Temple in Los Angeles.)<\/em><\/p>\n![\"Share](\"https:\/\/static.hupso.com\/share\/buttons\/share-medium.png\")