My house burned down when I was 12 years old. We were at a Sunday brunch with my grandparents when we saw flames in the Oakland hills and I remember saying, “That looks like it could be near our house.” This was a time before cell phone alerts and apps to track fires, so by the time we reached home, we had about 15 minutes to pack up the car. We had moved into the house six months before, and as my mother ran around trying to collect the basic necessities, I climbed onto the roof and started to hose it down - my small way of doing something during an otherwise overwhelming and chaotic scene. From the roof, I waved to a girl from my school who lived down the street, I watched people running in and out of their homes with piles of items, I saw a woman frantically running towards her car to escape, only to trip and fall on the ground and require the help of two men to help her up and calm her down. We lived on a hill just above Lake Temescal Recreation Area - a small, peaceful enclave in the middle of an urban area. As I stood on that roof, I watched as, just a few hundred yards away, firefighting helicopters flew low over the small lake, scooped up water, and turned back towards my house to drop water on the growing flames on the hills behind us. I can still picture the moment my mother called out my name and said that we needed to leave immediately. I got off the roof, stood in my bedroom one last time, looked around, and thought, “What do I need from here? What do I really need?” I can’t remember what I took from my room. It was probably a few items of clothing and maybe my school backpack. Those seemed important at the time. Despite what I had just witnessed outside, I figured I would be back soon enough.
My life was forever changed that day and it wasn’t because I no longer had my signed Magic Johnson picture, my baseball card collection, the various trinkets I had collected from living in Japan, or the electronics I enjoyed. My life changed because my entire definition of ‘home’ shifted. On October 20, 1991, I lost faith that I would ever again be grounded by a physical home - that a physical place would ever be permanent in my life. I gave up on the idea that I should invest my time or energy into some place that could provide me with all of my needs. That was the biggest loss I experienced in the fire. The loss of a sense of permanence. I know there are many today who feel similarly.
Our tradition puts significant emphasis on the concept of ‘home.’ Most of our holidays take place in our home. The idea of shalom bayit (peace in the home) drives the way we are supposed to interact with our partners and other family members, and the word for home in Hebrew, bayit, serves as the foundation for institutions central to the long-term success of the Jewish people - beit knesset (house of gathering), beit tefillah (house of prayer), beit midrash (house of study), beit din (house of law), and many more. When my house burned down, my concept of bayit moved completely into the figurative and emotional realm. Since that day, I have been emotionally dedicated to ensuring that my safe place is with the right people, the right community, the right experiences - those that bring me joy, comfort, and inspiration. And so the biggest loss of that fire also served as the birth of the biggest gift I’ve received in my life - the gift of being free to establish and define a home for myself no matter where I am.
And that’s why we all have such an important task ahead of us. These past few days have been so incredibly painful. There are now thousands of people in our city whose definition of ‘home’ may be forever changed. They may be in the most vulnerable state of their lives, with almost nothing material to show for themselves. We place so much of our identity into the physical elements of our lives - the art we hang on our walls, the clothes we wear, the cars we drive, the rooms we decorate, the memorabilia we collect, the Judaica we display. To lose all of that in an instant is a shock to the system. There is much pain ahead for these families. But there is also incredible hope and opportunity.
My bar mitzvah was six months after the fire, and I remember how important my synagogue was to me and my mother during that time. Rabbi Steve Chester, from Temple Sinai in Oakland, showed me comfort and care. Two days ago, my mother texted me a picture of a piece of art (the one at the bottom of this email) that he gave to each family who lost a home. My local Jewish community played a role in my repair and my internal rebuilding after the fire.
Today, we have all been given the opportunity to offer support and care to our community of families who are in pain and in need. It is our collective responsibility, and together we can help to rebuild the hearts and souls of so many.
In the coming days, I want us to take our anxiety, our fear, our shock, and maybe even some ‘survivor’s guilt,’ and I want us to transform it into something else. Action.
Unfortunately, as Jews today, we seem to be running multiple marathons at the same time. But we have been marathon runners for thousands of years, and this is just another opportunity for us to put our skills to work. Our fellow Wilshire Boulevard Temple families, along with thousands of others around this city, need our support. They need our compassion, our guidance, and our creativity to help them navigate this tortuous journey. In the coming weeks and months, we may ask for your help. Please think about how you want to say Hineini, “Here I am.”
This week’s Torah portion, Vayechi, is the final Torah portion in the Book of Genesis. As with all books of the Torah, when we reach the end, we recite the phrase hazak, hazak, v’nithazek - “Be strong, Be strong, We will be strengthened!” There is no more appropriate phrase for us to offer this Shabbat.
Let us send strength and comfort to everyone across our city, and especially within our own community, who have lost their homes. Let us gather our own strength to step up and support a city that continues to burn, and let us recognize how lucky we are to be part of a Jewish community that can serve as a collective home and safe haven for so many.
To those who have lost their home this week, I see you, I feel your pain, and I am dedicated to ensuring that our community supports you. We are with you.
With prayers for peace and comfort,
Rabbi Joel Nickerson
