Sunday school and the search for peace: All need a safe place

I'm not going and there's nothing you can do to make me. As a mother, I know this statement all too well. My son, a bold-hearted first-grader with curls that don't quit, shouts this rallying cry on most Sunday mornings.

When it comes to religious life, he leads with the word "no." For whatever reason, that's his signature statement. Normally I roll with it, and by rolling with it I mean he'll be on the steps of Temple Israel at 9 a.m., whatever it takes (lately Ghirardelli caramel chocolate squares).

On this particular day, after a few minutes spent facedown on the couch, he shimmied up to the windowsill as if scaling a building. And then, perched on the ledge of the window, he burst into a high-pitched scream in five-second ear-busting intervals. Over and over again.

I know you're having that I-don't-want-to-do-it-feeling, I explained, lowering my voice. But sweet guy, as Jews, this is what we do. We go to synagogue, even though sometimes we don't feel like it. OK, a lot of the time we don't feel like it. Maybe most of the time. But when you get there, everything will feel a little better.

I wanted to say all kinds of other things — things I held back from saying. On the list were mostly variations of a theme: Are you really going to pick today to rail against being Jewish? Yesterday there were people killed in a synagogue not unlike ours.

I didn't tell my son those things because he's only 7. He will have the rest of his life to learn about the hate and violence present in this world. And since I can protect him from it for a bit longer, I do. I don't want him sitting in shul frightened about getting shot. He's supposed to be learning about the Ten Commandments and tikkun olam (repairing the world), not terror.

As a parent and citizen, the amount of work there is to be done can be overwhelming. Now more than ever, we need common-sense gun laws. And equally, we must build toward understanding and respect for all races, and religions. This isn't a Jewish issue, it's a human one. To our Muslim neighbors who have been targeted so fiercely and so unjustly: You have the right to be safe, respected and celebrated.

At their core, the major religions have similar hopes for a more humane society. They have similar goals for peace and acceptance of life's challenges.

On that specific morning, it was all we could do to show up on time for Sunday school. Yes, my son was wearing loosefitting gray sweats with a case of unstoppable bedhead. Yet none of that matters, or at least that's what I very often tell myself.

When we pulled into the parking lot at Temple Israel, it was packed. This proved what I know to be true — Jews show up, no matter what. I don't know of anyone who kept their children home on that day, or on any day after the aftermath of a major shooting.

My son and I walked together inside the synagogue, the same sacred place I walked into uncounted times when I was child. Back then it was a haven, almost free of safety-related fears. Growing up, the scariest thing I had to contend with was reading my Torah portion while standing in front of a seasoned crowd.

On the way in we passed several police SUVs and a few plainclothes guards wearing dark sunglasses. I saw a security person pacing around the perimeter of the building behind the bushes. Also clustered at the door was a rabbi, various synagogue staff and assorted board members. "Boker tov" ­(good morning), they said, looking us in the eye.

It still is a haven, although a well-guarded one. I never feel alone when I am at synagogue — it's the same place where my grandparents used to pray, where I ditched Hebrew in the stairwell with a boy who later became my boyfriend and where my mother once taught preschool. It is a place where people are working for immigrants rights, hosting a makeshift homeless shelter and organizing for affordable housing. Where there are clergy who will give a hug or a prayer whenever you need one.

After I dropped my son off at his classroom, I passed by the sanctuary to hear the cantor chanting the V'ahavta, a Hebrew prayer for peace. His voice, as always, was soaring, strong and a little sorrowful; I would recognize it anywhere. I pressed my back against the doorway, and took a long, deep breath. I didn't want to cry in front of my son, but here, in the middle of the wide checker-tiled hallway of Temple Israel, I let out the tears that I had been working hard to hold back. As I stood there taking in Cantor Abelson's deep operatic tenor, I did what I imagine every parent does in the wake of a tragedy; I thought of how vulnerable it is to love someone so innocent and undefended. I thought of all of the lives lost to gun violence, and I thought about the future, unknown.

Like some other modern Jews, I don't know if I'm a God person in a traditional sense. But I am a community person, and even a prayer person. A prayer person who knows that prayers alone are not enough.

As my son will surely tell you — in our family, Sunday school is not optional. My children will grow up with an understanding of our history, traditions, songs and stories, even if I have to serve a hot pan of brownies for breakfast just to get them there. And really, whether you are Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Jewish or Hindu, or if you just like to meditate sometimes, having a safe place to practice faith is a necessary right. However a person can get to a place of holiness — coupled with a respect for the personal differences that are essential for humanity to thrive — it matters.

Emma Nadler is a psychotherapist and writer who lives with her family in Minnesota. Her work has been published in Scary Mommy, Kveller, and Minnesota Parent, among others.