Parasha Va-era

A "Ribbiting" Debate

Just a few weeks ago,   the American Studies Association, an academic organization, voted overwhelmingly to sever ties with all Israeli academic institutions.  This is part of a larger boycott movement in the West that has been the source of great concern to Israel and its supporters.  In recent weeks a Dutch water company severed its ties to its Israeli counterpart. Canada's largest Protestant church decided to boycott three Israeli companies. The Romanian government refused to allow its citizens to come to Israel to work in construction.

The American Studies Association resolution calls for the organization to boycott "formal collaborations with Israeli academic institutions, or with scholars who are expressly serving as representatives or ambassadors of those institutions, or on behalf of the Israeli government, until Israel ceases to violate human rights and international law."

One has to wonder why the American Studies Association chooses to boycott Israeli academic institutions.  Israel is, after all, a democracy and as such the faculty members have complete academic freedom. Why not boycott China, for example, a country with a population of 1.3 billion people and a well established history of intolerance of dissent. The New York Times reported that in October of this year Peking University dismissed Professor Xia Yeliang for advocating freedom and democracy.  His troubles began when he signed a petition in 2008 urging more freedom and democracy in China. The originator of that petition, known as Charter 08, is serving an 11 year sentence for subversion.  According to the Times, the dismissal of Professor Xia is part of a larger crackdown on scholars, lawyers and writers who have been advocating for more freedom.  This has been part of a campaign of "ideological purification" to suppress dissent in China.  Yet when asked the sensible question about why Israel was singled out for boycott, Curtis Marez, an Associate Professor of ethnic studies at the University of California responded, "We've got to start somewhere."

To get some insight into these issues we can look at a curious debate recorded in the Talmud. This debate is related to our parasha for this week. In our parasha, Moses is calling forth the first plagues to be brought upon Egypt. Dam – blood; Tsefardeyah – Frogs. Only the word Tsefardeyah , frog, is in the singular, not the plural. "Frogs" would be "Tsefardim" in the Hebrew.  This led to a disagreement between Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Eliezer. Rabbi Akiva maintains that there was only one frog, like the Torah literally says, and that it came up on the land.  That frog gave birth to many frogs, which then swarmed over Egypt. Rabbi Eliezer maintains that there was only one frog, like the Torah literally says, that came up on the land. That frog then whistled to all the other frogs in the Nile, who joined it. They all then swarmed over Egypt. The Talmud records Rabbi Eliezer's disdain for Rabbi Akiva's interpretation.  "Akiva, go back to studying the minutia of the law, for which you are capable, and leave the creative interpretations of Torah to me!"

Why was Rabbi Eliezer so harshly dismissive of Rabbi Akiva's interpretation?  As it turns out their differences were more profound than it appears on the surface.  These men were living during the Hadrianic persecution of the second century. The Roman Emperor Hadrian had forbidden three critical practices for the Jewish people: the practice of circumcision, the teaching and study of Torah, and the observance of Shabbat. The Emperor  was in the process of building a Roman Temple on the Holy Mount in Jerusalem.  Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Akiva were actually debating the nature of this anti-Jewish animus.

Rabbi Akiva, who held forth that the one frog had given birth to all the other frogs that swarmed over Egypt, was not talking about frogs at all. He held the theory that one man, in this case the Emperor Hadrian, could be responsible for spawning hatred against the Jewish people. Eliminate this one man, thought Rabbi Akiva, and you eliminate the source of the hatred that is influencing everyone else.  A corollary of this theory is that if one eliminates the behavior that is causing the hatred, then the hatred will cease as well.  Rabbi Eliezer, on the other hand, holds a different theory. He believes that anti-Jewish feelings were spread throughout society.  All it took was one influential person to call it forth, and it sprung seemingly out of nowhere, like frogs coming out of the Nile.  In this case the one frog is not the cause of the antagonism; it is merely the precipitant of it , the catalyst that calls it forth. In this case it is not any particular behavior of the Jewish people that causes the hatred; rather, it is the inability of a society to tolerate a minority in their midst with distinctive beliefs and practices.

I have to admit I do not know whether Rabbi Akiva's understanding or Rabbi Eliezer's understanding better explains the American Studies Association decision to boycott Israel, and others like it.  Is it, as Rabbi Akiva would have it, simply that Israel's behavior in the occupied territories is responsible for the calls to action against her?  Or, is Rabbi Eliezer right – that anti-Jewish feeling is endemic in Western societies, and that it is the very existence of Israel, that brings forth antagonism against her?  This is not to say that there really is one correct answer to this vexing question – only that we ought to beware of simplistic solutions or answers to such a highly complex  issue. 

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha Va-Yekhi

How To Hold A Grudge

This letter appeared in the Sunday NY Times advice column called "Social Q's" on July 5:

We had dinner with another couple at an elegant restaurant. I wore a beautiful and very expensive Chanel dress. When I walked in, the woman we were meeting said, "Oh, I have that same dress." She then told me she bought it at a discount store for about a thousand times less than I paid for mine. Wasn't that the most disgusting comment ever? She never compliments me and often makes nasty comments about my jewelry. ("You look so sparkly!") How would you get back at her?

This letter would be comical if it were not so sad. The slight inflicted is minor, one could say, the reaction to it so furious. Yet the letter illustrates how feelings of revenge and the desire to retaliate may be elicited by insensitive comments or actions that others direct toward us. Some of these may seems petty, like the one described in the letter. Others are more serious, as in the story of Joseph that we have been reading in the Torah these past several weeks.  Nevertheless, whether in response to a minor incident or a major one, feelings are feelings, and the question for this evening is, how should we behave in response when we have been wronged?

Much can be learned from studying the example set by Joseph. In this week's parasha, Jacob dies in Egypt. The Torah tells us that Joseph's brothers are worried.  They are afraid that Joseph has held a grudge against them for selling him into slavery, and that with the death of their father he will now exact his vengeance for the evil that they did to him. They even tell Joseph that before he died, their father told them that he hoped that Joseph would find it in his heart to forgive them.

Most of us can understand how difficult it would be to forgive someone, let alone your brother, who is supposed to love you, for selling us into slavery.  Many brothers and sisters find it hard to forgive one another for far less. Undoubtedly some of us know people who cannot find it in their heart to forgive a family member, and therefore they do not talk to that person for years on end.  In response to his brother's plea to be forgiven, Joseph replies, "Fear not, am I in the place of G-d? Although you intended me harm, G-d intended it for the good… so fear not, I will sustain you and your young ones."

Do you hear words of forgiveness in Joseph's response?  I do not.   I hear from Joseph a promise not to retaliate against his brothers for the evil they have done toward him. If G-d wants to punish them for their evil, so be it.  Joseph, for his part, promises to fulfill his obligation to support his family in Egypt.  But not once in the entire saga does Joseph utter the words, "I forgive you."

Some understand Joseph's failure to forgive his brothers after all of these years as a surprising moral lapse in someone who has come to be known in our tradition as "Yosef HaTsadik" – "Joseph the Righteous".  After all, isn't Yom Kippur the day of the year when we are supposed to forgive those who have wronged us?  Doesn't Joseph have a religious obligation to forgive? Many Yom Kippurs have passed in the intervening years that lead to their father's death.  Could Joseph not have forgiven them by now?  Yet, others see Joseph's failure to forgive his brothers as further sign of his greatness!  They understand that Joseph is unable to forgive his brothers. Naturally, they say, Joseph cannot forgive his brothers for what they have done. After all, who could forgive such an un-brotherly act as selling a brother into slavery? Joseph's greatness, according to them, lies in the fact that even though he cannot forgive them, he still uses his power to protect them. Although he cannot honestly find it in his heart to forgive them, he will not act against them. If his brothers are to be punished at all, it will be at the hands of G-d.  Joseph will have nothing to do with that.

This is a lesson for all of us.  How ought we to react to a person who has wronged us in words or in action? It is certainly praiseworthy to be able to "forgive and forget", yet, as the story of Joseph illustrates, this is not always possible. Although we may not be able to forgive others for what they have done to us, we can restrain ourselves from getting back at them.  Joseph shows us that it is possible to maintain cordial relationships with others and to even be warm and generous to them, though we may harbor some lingering resentment toward them in our hearts.        

Shabbat Shalom

*This sermon was inspired by a teaching by Rav David Silverberg

Parasha VaYigash

Reconciliation -- "Then" and "Now" 

Rabbi Joseph Telushkin relates the following story. It illustrates the rancor that is legend in synagogue life:

Two members of a congregation have been feuding for years. On Yom Kippur eve, just before the Kol Nidre service, the rabbi brings the two men together in his office. "You must make peace," he implores. "What is the point of going into the synagogue and asking G-d to forgive you when you cannot even forgive your fellow man?"  The men are both moved. They hug and promise that they will not fight anymore. When services end, one of the men greets the other. "I prayed for you everything that you prayed for me," the first man said.  "Starting up already?" the second man answered.

Reconciliation and forgiveness can be very difficult. Yet one of the most important callings of our tradition is to bring peace between people.  In this week's parasha, we read about the forgiveness and reconciliation the Joseph brought about with his brothers. In thinking about this parasha, I was struck by the parallels between Joseph and another great peacemaker in our own time, Nelson Mandela, who died yesterday at the age of 95. To those who think that the stories of the Bible are fairy tales -- fictions that could not have happened -- all we need to do is to look at the similarities between Joseph's life and Nelson Mandela's to convince us of the basic truth of the biblical account of Joseph. Both men were born to rule, but ended up ruling in ways they could not have imagined. Both men were born to privilege. Joseph was the son of the wealthy patriarch, the prophet Jacob.  Mandela was raised in the home of his tribal chief, to whom he was the heir apparent.  Both men were dreamers at a young age, and both had a rebellious streak. Mandela rebelled against the paramount chief who was planning his marriage and future chieftainship.  He ran away to Johannesburg, where he was suspended from college for his political activity against apartheid. He dreamed of a South Africa where white and black could live together in freedom and equality. Joseph was given a coat of many colors by his father, a symbol of leadership in the family. He too refused to follow the rules of tribal life and had dreams of leadership that went against long established tribal custom. Both Nelson Mandela and Joseph were incarcerated unjustly, and spent long years in the darkness of prison. Yet both were able to maintain hopefulness in the face of what would drive others to despair. For Mandela, this was achieved through his ideals and his conviction that in the end the cause of justice and equality would eventually win. For Joseph, hope was maintained by his certainty that G-d would not abandon him in his darkest days. "Tell your dreams to me," says Joseph to the cupbearer and the baker with whom he was imprisoned. "Perhaps G-d will give me the wisdom to interpret them".

Both Joseph and Nelson Mandela came from their prison cells to rise to lead their respective nations with skill and wisdom, with dignity and forbearance.  However, their greatest achievements were not in the areas of administrative skills, but in moral force.  Nelson Mandela received world wide acclaim as a peacemaker, as a person who chose forgiveness over vengeance. "His commitment to ……. reconcile with those who jailed him set an example that all humanity should aspire to," said President Obama upon hearing of the death of Mandela. "He was influential, courageous and profoundly good."  Those words could very well have been spoken about Joseph. In this week's parasha we learn that Joseph's brothers are terrified that he is going to pay them back for having sold him into slavery. They are horrified at the thought that he will exact vengeance for all the years of suffering. It is Joseph's belief in G-d's power in his life that keeps him from doing just that.  He allays the fears of his brothers with the words, "G-d sent me ahead of you to assure your survival in the land and to sustain you….it was not you who sent me here -- it was G-d." In saying these words, Joseph shows his profound humility. "It is not all about me," he is saying to his brothers in another way. "My suffering is part of a greater plan that only now becomes apparent."

As I was writing these thoughts, my attention was brought to new musical opened on Broadway this summer called "Soul Doctor". It is about the life of Rabbi Shlomo Carlbach, may his memory be for a blessing. There is a scene in the play where Reb Shlomo is giving a concert in Vienna. His mentor, Reb Pinchas, with whom Reb Shlomo has fallen out, confronts him. "A Jew must never forgive the crimes of these 'cultured citizens of Vienna'" says Reb Pinchas. "My dear Reb Pinchas," replies Reb Shlomo, "If I had two hearts, I could use one to love and one to hate. But I only have one heart ... so I use it to love!" 

This is the greatness of both Joseph and Nelson Mandela, and it could be our greatness as well. We only have one heart – use it to love.  The lives of Joseph and Mandela show us a different way – the possibilities of escaping our need to settle scores from the past and moving forward in our lives to a brighter, more glorious future.  May they inspire us to overcome hatred, enmity, bigotry and intolerance. May they serve as models of how we can free ourselves from the desire for retaliation in our personal lives, in our work lives or in our communal and political lives. Let not our dreams be imprisoned by bitterness.  To paraphrase Nelson Mandela : "If there are dreams about a beautiful life, there are also roads that lead to that goal. Two of these roads could be named Goodness and Forgiveness."

Shabbat Shalom

Chanukah Sermon

Balancing our Jewish Lives

A week ago our community was shaken, shocked and saddened by the untimely death of Rabbi Shmuel Mann of B'nai Israel in Aurora. This is a profound loss for the B'nai Israel community in particular but also to all of us in the Western Suburbs. Rabbi Mann will be sorely missed. His twin brother, Rabbi Akiva Mann, spoke movingly in his eulogy about Rabbi Mann's scholarship, about his love of people and about his deep integrity.

In talking about his beloved brother, Rabbi Akiva Mann said something that made me think. He pointed out how his brother always emphasized to his congregation that important as ritual practice is, our ethical behavior toward one another, our commitment to Tikum Olam, our compassion and caring for others are equally important. I thought to myself: curious that in my congregation I feel I need to deliver the mirror image of Rabbi Mann's message:  that as important as our ethical behavior toward one another is,  and our commitment to Tikun Olam, repairing the world, ritual practice is equally important. Perhaps this is due to the fact that B'nai Israel is a more traditional synagogue than ours, and its members more attentive to ritual. They do not need as many reminders of how important ritual is in our lives. Perhaps they need more reminders of their religious responsibilities to make the world a better place.

I have no doubt that our congregation is extremely strong and very committed to universal values -- our commitment to feeding the hungry, and to volunteering our time and energies in a wide range of social justice issue – values and commitments we share with those of various faiths. For this I am immensely proud and so should you be. However, a lot of us, I feel, need to make ritual observance a more central part of our Jewish lives. We need to pay more attention to lighting Shabbat candles in our homes, on having a challah on our table Friday nights, on saying Kiddush as we sit down as a family for the special Sabbath meal, on resting on the Sabbath and on observing other rituals that are particular to Judaism. I can almost guarantee that observing one of two of our precious rituals consistently, would enrich our spirit as well as our family and communal lives.

One of the home rituals performed by most of us is the lighting of the Chanukah candles.  According to the Talmud, the primary reason we light the candles on Chanukah is to "publicize the miracle of Chanukah". The miracle is not the military victory of the Maccabees, but the miraculous intervention by G-d when one vial of oil lasted for eight days. We are to publicize the miracle by placing the lit menorah outside our doorways or in the windows of our homes, so that passers-by can see them, and be reminded of the miracle of Chanukah. 

There is an interesting discussion among the rabbis of the Talmud about what constitutes the mitzvah of the menorah. One rabbi says that a person has completed the mitzvah to light the candles once the candles have been lit. Another rabbi states that one has not completed the mitzvah of lighting the candles until they are placed in the window so that others can see them.  The disagreement is over whether the actual "lighting" of the candles is the main part of the mitzvah, or whether the "placing" of the candles in the window is the main part of the mitzvah.

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev, a Chassidic master who lived circa 1800, comments upon this Talmudic disagreement from a psychological perspective.  He writes that a person should always try to perform a mitzvah with joy and great desire, with fervor and with meditating on G-d's greatness. To perform a mitzvah is a wonderful privilege, and our enthusiasm for doing it should know no bounds. But, he acknowledges, our heart is not always in it. We are not always able to perform the mitzvah with the proper "kavanah" the proper intention, with the right attitude.  A person might then think – "If I am not "feeling" it, I should not perform it."

This, writes Rabbi Levi Yitzchak, is the hidden meaning of what at first glance appears to be a disagreement in the Talmud -- whether "lighting" is the essence of the mitzvah, or whether "placing" is the essence of the mitzvah.  This is not a disagreement at all, claims Rabbi Levi Yitzchak. Rather, in asserting that the "lighting" is the essence of the mitzvah, we mean that a person should optimally perform a mitzvah with great joy, as if his or her soul is on fire. When the other opinion maintains that "placing" is the essence of the mitzvah, we mean that even when a person falls from that place of fieriness and enthusiasm, he or she should still perform the mitzvah.  In the first instance, the fervor of the person uplifts the lighting. In the second instance, the lighting uplifts the person. This is true of all mitzvahs, whether of the "ethical" or the "ritual" kind.

This is what happened to Dr. Laura Schulman, who published her story in the Jewish Press.  She writes that over the years she had become very distant from her Jewish roots and apathetic about Jewish practice. She was attending a medical convention when she walked by the public lighting of a menorah on the steps of a building on the campus of Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. "My eyes welled with tears," she writes. "…. To be away from my family that first night of the holiday felt cold and lonely. Now, seeing the lights of the first night's flames of that big menorah, my heart lit up also, and I felt the warmth of my people all around me."

When she returned to Seattle, she contacted a rabbi for the first time in her life and told him of her experience in Baltimore. That flame in Baltimore ignited a spark that led her to reconnect with her Jewish community and to live an active Jewish life. The flame of that Menorah continues to burn steadily within her.

Such is the power of ritual. Rabbi Mann, may his memory be a blessing, reminds us that we need to strive to balance our Jewish lives with both ritual and good deeds, good deeds and ritual. Together these have the capacity to uplift our lives in unimagined ways.

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha Vayishlach

What Does G-d Look Like? 

Every Sunday morning I visit two classrooms in our Religious School for one of my favorite activities of the week --"Ask the Rabbi". Usually the teacher and the students prepare a list of questions ahead of time that they want to ask me.  Some of the questions are surprisingly original and profound. A boy in our third grade asked me, "How old are you when you know that you are Jewish?"  I have to admit I never thought about that before. I suppose it would be like asking, "How old are you when you know that you are a boy? -- or a girl?" It is the kind of information about yourself that you just know. Most likely, none of us can remember when we learned we were Jewish. In response to that question one third grade girl told us that her family has committee meetings when important things come up in family life. She recalled that when she was three years old her family had a meeting and told her she was Jewish!  This response prompted a little girl sitting next to her to tell us that her family had to put her in a bathtub to make her Jewish – but she did not remember it.  I did not understand that until she told us that she had been adopted.  Oh, I said, you had to go to a mikvah – the ritual bath used in conversions among other things -- because you were not born Jewish. This led another child to wonder why it was that her mother, who was Jewish, married her father, who was Christian!  Now we are getting into the nitty-gritty, I thought. I could see the classroom teacher squirming in his seat as I contemplated that one! "Well," I said "That is easy to answer, -- they fell in love! "

As you can see, these questions are full of depth and penetrating curiosity at the same time.  Last week a 5^th grader asked me what G-d looked like. As I often do, I explored this with the students before offering an answer. "Does anyone have any ideas," I asked. This led to a lively discussion. One child thought G-d might look like a giant blue smurf. Another thought G-d might look something like the Genie in the Alladin movie.  I later viewed a picture of the Genie in the Disney movie over the internet and I have to admit that I could understand where this child was coming from.  Another child opined that G-d was invisible. Of course this implies that G-d occupies some kind of space in which G-d is invisible, which is different from saying that G-d cannot be seen. My usual answer to this question is that G-d has no shape and no form and cannot be seen.

Perhaps my usual answer is not the entire truth either. After all, the Torah says that there has never been a prophet like Moses, who spoke to G-d "panim el panim" – face to face. And in this week's Torah portion, we have the story of Jacob wrestling with what is described as an "ish"—the Hebrew for "man". There is a lot of discussion in the commentaries about whether this is actually a "man" or "an angel". The Torah tells us that they wrestle throughout the night. The "ish" injures Jacob. As dawn approaches, the "ish" tells Jacob that he needs to go. Yet Jacob holds on. "I will not let you go until you bless me," says Jacob. The "ish" blesses Jacob and gives him a new name – Yisrael – "because you have wrestled with beings divine and human and have prevailed." Interestingly, Jacob names the place Peni-el, which means, "I have seen G-d face to face and I have survived."

Why would Jacob name this place "Peni-el" – I have seen G-d face to face – if he was convinced that the "ish" was in fact a man? Jacob seems convinced that he has had an encounter with the divine. So perhaps G-d does have a face, and that face and form looks very much like you and me.  That is certainly easiest to imagine when we look at the innocent faces of our beloved children. This seems to be Jacob's experience as well. The "man" with whom he wrestles is no "man" at all, but rather G-d himself. So this is how I answered the children this time --that maybe G-d looks like --- us!  The Torah tells us that G-d created humankind in G-d's image. There must be something in our appearance that is similar to G-d.

Jacob confirms this later in the parasha. When he finally meets Esau, Jacob implores him to accept the gifts that he has sent his brother. "When I saw your face," says Jacob, "it was as if I were seeing the face of divinity itself."

In his book, Seek My Face – A Jewish Mystical Theology, Rabbi Arthur Green tells the story of Rav Nachman Kossover, a contemporary of the Baal Shem Tov. Rav Nachman was a mystic who believed that to be close to G-d one had to focus on the four letters of G-d's name throughout the day. It was said that when Rav Kossover was preaching, he would look out onto the faces of those listening to him and he would see the letters of the divine name on their foreheads. The rabbi fell on hard times and was forced to sell goods in the marketplace for a livelihood. He had a dilemma. How could he remember G-d throughout the day? How could he keep the letters of the Name before him? Surely in the hustle and bustle of the marketplace he would lose his concentration and stray from G-d. He solved his problem by hiring an assistant who accompanied him in his business transactions. That person's only job was to remind Rabbi Nachman of the divine name. Whenever he would look at the face of his assistant, Rabbi Nachman would remember the name of G-d.

The Ten Commandments teach us that we should never make a graven image of G-d. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel taught that his is not because G-d has no image. He taught that this is because G-d has only one image – the image of every single human being.  In saying this Heschel is teaching us that it is idolatry to shape materials into images of G-d. The image of G-d cannot be contained or represented in any concrete image. This is a lessening of the image of G-d, a diminishing of the divine. Rather, we should shape our lives in the divine image. When we strive to fashion our lives to reflect the will of the Almighty, we are truly the living image of G-d.

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha VaYetze

Remembering the Holocaust

November 9 and 10^th mark the 75^th anniversary of the riots against Jews in Germany that we know as Kristallnacht – the night of the shattered glass.  In those 12 hours of mayhem, over 7500 Jewish businesses were attacked, 1000 synagogues were set to fire across Germany and Austria, and nearly 100 people were killed. The rioting was not a spontaneous action by Germans and Austrians. It was orchestrated by Hermann Goering and by Richard Heydrich, two of the Nazi leaders closest to Hitler. The following day, when the smoke cleared, so to speak, Goering presided over a meeting that included Heydrich as well as German insurance executives. The streets in front of synagogues were strewn with rubble, and it was determined that the Jewish community would have to pay for the clean-up. It turned out that although Jewish businesses were attacked that night, the businesses were often in buildings owned by Germans. The German owners ended up having to file claims against their insurance companies – something the insurance executives were not happy about!  The world also condemned Kristalnacht, wondering how such a brutal riot could take place in such a civilized country as Germany. Goering realized that this action against the Jews was a big mistake, and resolved never to do anything like it again. The destruction of German Jewry would have to be accomplished in a much more systematic and controlled manner.

Raoul Hilberg, the great scholar of the Holocaust, taught that Kristallnacht was not the first act of the genocide against the Jewish people. Rather, it was the final act of the traditional way of persecuting Jews in Europe – it was the final pogrom. It was the end of the medieval way that governments and communities attacked their Jewish populations. From that time on, Germany would pioneer modern methods of genocide. That would lie in the future.  For now, Germany wanted to rid itself of her Jews through making life unbearable for them in Germany.  Voluntary emigration was the goal of the Nazis.

Kristallnacht did convince many Jews that there was no future for them in Germany. Up until Kristallnacht many held out hope for the future of Jews in Germany. When Hitler came to power in 1933, there were 520,000 Jews in Germany. By the time of Kristallnacht, in 1938, there were only 300,000 Jews left in Germany, the result of emigration, and 190,000 in Austria. After Kristallnacht, it became apparent to the Jewish community that Jews could no longer survive in Germany.  One hundred thousand Jews left Germany in the months after Kristallnacht, and 80,000 left Austria. Some of them found refuge in Cuba or Shanghai or other places in the world, and were thus saved from the Holocaust.

Emil Fackenheim was a prominent theologian and a Reform Rabbi who died in 2003 in Jerusalem.  At the time of Kristallnacht he was a young man studying to become a rabbi and living in Berlin. He was rounded up by the Nazis in the days following Kristallnacht, along with 30,000 other Jews.  He was transported to the Sachsenhausen, concentration camp about 25 miles from Berlin. In the crisp autumn air he and others were made to strip and stand naked for hours in the main assembly area of the camp. As the afternoon waned, it began to get colder and colder. Finally, the Kommandant of the camp came out to address the freezing and exhausted prisoners. The Kommandant stood before them next to the cage of his pet parrot. On the cage was a sign saying, "It is forbidden to tease the bird."  "I knew then," Fackenheim later wrote, "that we naked and shivering Jews could never aspire to the status of a German pet".

Fackenheim was released from the concentration camp after three months on condition that he would leave the country. He made his way to Scotland where he enrolled as a doctoral student at the University of Aberdeen. However, he was detained as an enemy alien of military age and deported to Canada where he was imprisoned for a while before gaining his freedom. He earned his PHD in Philosophy from the University of Toronto and some years later joined its faculty where he taught until 1984.

Although he had a distinguished academic career, Fackenheim is perhaps best known for his formulation of what came to be known as the "614^th commandment." For those who are unfamiliar with the Jewish tradition, it is said that the Torah contains 613 commandments.  Fackenheim wrote, "We are, first, commanded to survive as Jews, lest the Jewish people perish," he said. "We are commanded, secondly, to remember in our very guts and bones the martyrs of the Holocaust, lest their memory perish. We are forbidden, thirdly, to deny or despair of God, however much we may have to contend with him or with belief in him, lest Judaism perish. We are forbidden, finally, to despair of the world as the place which is to become the kingdom of God, lest we help make it a meaningless place in which God is dead or irrelevant and everything is permitted. To abandon any of these imperatives, in response to Hitler's victory at Auschwitz, would be to hand him yet other, posthumous victories."

In the recently completed Pew Survey of American Jewry, people were asked, "What does it mean to be Jewish?" Seventy three percent of those asked, the highest percentage of any response, answered, "It means to remember the Holocaust."  How do we remember the Holocaust? If "remembering the Holocaust" means that we make a personal commitment to Judaism so that it survives;  if it means never forgetting the victims, if it means that we never despair of G-d no matter what;  if "remembering the Holocaust" means that we will work to make our world a better place;  a place which becomes the Kingdom of G-d;  if "remembering the Holocaust" means that we will never accept Jewish powerlessness again, if it means we will never again allow the fate of the Jewish people to depend on the good will of others, then Judaism is in good shape in America. I wonder -- Does it mean that to those who responded? Does it mean that to you? May it be so!

Good Shabbas.

 

 

Parasha Ki Tetze

The Power of Words

It is a beautiful Jewish tradition for parents to place their hands on the heads of their children and bless them on Friday nights. For sons we say, "May G-d give you the blessings of Ephraim and Manasseh". For daughters we recite, "May G-d give you the blessings of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah." At the synagogue it is our custom to give blessings to those who are celebrating birthdays and anniversaries. We give blessings to bar and bat mitzvahs when they have their first aliyah, and we give a special blessing to their parents on the occasion as well. We bless those who are in need of healing. In fact, blessings are so important that we might even KILL for them!

Surprised? Shocked? Bewildered?  That is exactly what happens in our Torah portion this week! Isaac is old and is about to bless his son, Esau. He asks Esau to hunt and prepare some game for him, and he will then give him a blessing. Jacob, on his mother Rivkah's advice, disguises himself as Esau while Esau is out hunting. He steals into his father's tent disguised as Esau and tricks his father into giving him the much desired blessing instead. When Esau returns to find out that his blessing has been given to his brother, he is distraught. This tough guy, this seasoned hunter, this rough and tumble rogue bursts out into wild and bitter sobbing!  "Bless me too, Father", he cries out.  "But," says Isaac, "Your brother came here with guile, and took your blessing!"  "You only have one blessing, Father?" asked Esau, still bitterly weeping. "Bless me too, Father," he begs for a second time.  Isaac blesses Esau as well. But, the Torah tells us, Esau harbored a grudge against his brother Jacob, and planned to kill him after Isaac, his father, passed away.

Reading this story, we have to feel sorry for Esau. We also have to wonder – what harm did he suffer that he should plan to kill his brother? Is a blessing so important that you would kill someone for stealing it? Could not Isaac simply give Esau the same blessing he gave Jacob? Is it not G-d who blesses us? Who are we to be giving blessings anyway?

When we consider that up until the time of Abraham is was only G-d who gave blessings, we begin to glimpse the power of giving blessings. In the Book of Genesis, G-d blesses the seventh day and makes it holy. G-d blesses Abraham as well. After that, the power of blessing others is taken up by humankind. G-d can bless, and so can human beings. In other words, we share the power to bless with G-d.  Make no mistake about it, our words are very powerful. Our words can create, and our words can destroy. Two hundred and fifty years ago, the words of Thomas Jefferson inspired our nation to greatness. Hitler was one of the great orators of the 20^th century, yet his power to mesmerize millions with his speech led our world to catastrophe. A careless word between friends or family members can lead to strife that is difficult to overcome. Yet the words "I'm sorry" can lead to reconciliation and peace.

It is said that the words of the righteous have a special power, and that G-d sees to it that they are fulfilled.  The point is illustrated in this story:  Long ago there lived a great pious Jew named Rav Huna.  He was so poor that he worked in the fields all day long for a few coins and then learned Torah all night long.  One night when Rav Huna entered the house of study his teacher noticed his pants were held up with an old rope.  "Rav Huna, what has happened to your belt?"  His teacher asked.  "Why are you wearing that rope around your waist instead?"  Rav Huna replied quietly "Last Shabbas I didn't have enough money to buy wine for kiddish.  I know I could have made kiddish from challah but in order to fulfill the mitzvah of kiddishim the most beautiful way I decided to sell my belt and buy some wine."  Rav Huna's teacher was so impressed with his student's devotion to a mitzvah that he exclaimed "Now you dress yourself in rope.  May it be the Almighty's will that one day you will be so rich and prosperous that you will be covered with the finest silk."  And sure enough Rav Huna became an exceedingly wealthy man.  He no longer worked in the fields or lacked food or clothing.  On the day of his son's wedding Rav Huna laid down to rest for a while in a dark room.  His daughters and daughters-in-law did not notice Rav Huna on the bed and used it as a place to put their fine silk coats.  And so it was that when Rav Huna awoke he found himself covered with silk from head to toe.  His teacher's blessing had come true. 

Perhaps now we can understand why Esau was so upset. He knew that his father, Isaac, was a righteous person, and he believed that his words had great power to influence and even to determine his future.  In Esau's estimation, Jacob has done nothing less than to steal the future that Esau had envisioned for himself. 

Can the blessing of a parent, or a rabbi, influence ones future?  I believe it can. Several weeks ago, I was back in Massachusetts having a coffee with one of my former congregants. She was recalling a time almost a decade ago when she had turned sixty years old. Her father had died when he was sixty two, and she was anxious about her aging and her mortality. She recalled that when she was called for an aliyah she received a blessing from me on the occasion of her 60^th birthday. For her, that blessing made all the difference in the world, she recalled.  From that time on she faced her future without fear and with a new-found confidence.  "I knew everything was going to be all right," she said.

Now I would like us each to take a few moments to think quietly about what blessing we would like to receive tonight. Then, I want you to turn to your neighbor and tell him or her what blessing you would like.  It could be for health, or for patience, or for finding a job, or doing well at a project coming up at work, or for any other challenge you may face. Then your neighbor will bless you, with the words, "May the G-d who blessed our ancestors, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah bless you with/in your/ to ….."  Then repeat that process being the recipient of your neighbor's blessing. The formula for the blessing is found in the back page of your handout for this evening.

Shabbat Shalom

 

 

 

Parasha Vayera

A few weeks ago I gave a sermon in which I mentioned a film that I had seen called "Twenty Feet from Stardom." In the sermon I cited the famous story of Rabbi Zusya, who feared that when he died and went to heaven he would be asked not "why were you not Moses," – he could answer that, G-d did not  give him the great courage that G-d gave Moses;  and not "Why were you not Maimonides"—he could answer that, G-d did not give him the great intellect that he gave Maimonides. The question that Rabbi Zusya feared was, "Why were you not Zusya?"  I posted the sermon on my sermon page and received the following comment – "What if you ARE yourself and are very flawed and see this but are helpless to be otherwise."

I replied to this comment on line that no one is helpless to be otherwise. We are all flawed individuals. Our task is to polish our star so that it can shine more brightly. Our work is to improve ourselves every day. Tonight I want to expand on these thoughts. Even our holy Torah knows of no unflawed or perfect people. Despite the high esteem that we hold for Abraham, who read about in this week's Torah reading, the Bible does not present him as without faults. When a famine drives him and his wife to Egypt, the Torah tells us that Abraham is concerned for his own safety. What if the Egyptians see his beautiful wife and kill him so that they can take her for themselves? "Please tell them that you are my sister," says Abraham to his wife Sarah. The RamBAN sees this as a great sin. Better he should have better trusted in the protection of G-d, than to have asked for such a sacrifice from his wife. As it is, Sarah is taken to the Pharaoh, and it is only through the intervention of G-d that Pharaoh is prevented from taking her as his wife. Yet, not having learned the lesson, Abraham repeats the mistake with another king in another foreign land later on in the parasha.

Look at Abraham's role as a family man. Abraham and Sarah cannot have children, so Sarah suggests that Abraham betroth her maidservant, Hagar. "Perhaps I will be built up through her," says Sarah. Apparently, the custom of the time was any child of a woman's maid through her husband would be counted as the child of the woman herself. Once pregnant, Hagar gets haughty. She thinks she is better than Sarah. Sarah is greatly vexed by this. Can you blame her? Here you agree that your maidservant can have relations with your husband for the purpose of pro-creation, and the maid begins to laud it over you! So, Sarah complains to Abraham. Does Abraham go and talk to Hagar about it? Does he explain to her that we all have to get along in this household, and it is best that you treat Sarah with respect; she is, after all, my first wife and I love her dearly? Does he talk to Sarah about it, after all, Hagar is only a young woman and like all young women she is a little full of herself, especially now that she is giving us a child, and we must be patient with her, I'll talk to her, and you let me know if this keeps happening. No. When Sarah complains to Abraham, Abraham seems to get angry and impatient with her. "She's your maidservant," he snaps back at Sarah, "Do with her as you see fit!" That leaves Sarah with nowhere to go with her anger and frustration than to take it out on Hagar, which she does.

Then there is the episode of the binding of Isaac. How could Abraham argue so passionately with G-d over the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah – "If there are only ten righteous people in the cities, will You not save the city for the sake of the ten" – but when it comes to the destruction of his own flesh and blood, his beloved son Isaac, he does not raise any protest whatsoever. It is like the shoemakers children who have no shoes themselves. Abraham seems more concerned with the stranger than he is with his own family. So it is with all of the heroes of the Bible. Isaac with his naiveté, Jacob with his dishonesty, Moses and his temper, Aaron and his lack of a backbone, King David with his lust. All are deeply flawed individuals who do great things despite their shortcomings which the Bible does not hide from us.

This month marked the passing of another flawed giant of our tradition. Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, the 93 year old patriarch of the Sephardic community in Israel, passed away. On the day of his funeral hundreds of thousand of people turned out in the streets of Jerusalem for the funeral procession. Forty thousand people participated in a memorial service at the conclusion of shiva last week. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu called Rabbi Ovadia, "one of the wisest men of his generation" and "a giant in Torah and Jewish law and a teacher to tens of thousands."  President Shimon Peres, who had been with Rabbi Ovadia hours before his death, said, "When I kissed his head, it was as though I kissed the very greatness of Israel." Rabbi Ovadia Yosef's rabbinic opinions, which carried a great deal of weight in Israel and abroad, were often enlightened and compassionate. He was the only major rabbinic figure in Israel to take the courageous stand that preserving lives was more important than retaining land. This meant that he believed that it was religiously permissible to give up territory in the Land of Israel – land that he considered holy -- for peace. He made the compassionate ruling allowing women whose husbands had been killed in the Yom Kippur war but could not be definitely confirmed as dead – the agunah – to remarry. He applied similar reasoning in an opinion allowing women whose husbands had been killed in the 9/11 attack to remarry when there was no body or witness to the death. He wrote a rabbinic opinion, citing the views of a 16^th century scholar, that the Jews of Ethiopia were part of the ten lost tribes of Israel and therefore could legally immigrate to Israel under the Law of Return. This opinion was influential in the absorption of tens of thousands of Ethiopian Jews into the Jewish State. As the leader of the political party, Shas, he gave voice and dignity to the Sephardi community of Israel who had suffered years of disenfranchisement and discrimination at the hands of the Ashkenazi establishment of the State.

Quite a list of accomplishments for any one person. Yet, like Abraham, Rabbi Ovadia was a very flawed person. He spewed anger and vitriol at those he considered his political and religious enemies, including former Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, Palestinian Authority President Mahmood Abbas, Israeli Supreme Court Justices, secular Jews, Conservative Jews, Reform Jews, and gentiles in general. Under his leadership women from his political party were forbidden to run for office. Through his comments he did a great deal to exacerbate the divisions and polarizations that are a part of Israeli life.

The Palestinian sage Alexandri, who lived during the time of the Talmud, used to say, "When a common man uses a broken vessel he is ashamed of it, but not so with the Holy One. All the instruments of His service are broken vessels." Our tradition understands that we are all flawed human beings, even the greatest among us. We all are obliged to work toward repairing our flaws. But our brokenness does not, and should not, excuse us from acting in the world to alleviate pain, to address suffering, and to do good works. We can grow every day toward reaching our full potential as husbands and wives, as mothers and fathers, as friends, as workers, and as citizens.  In doing so, we fulfill our Creator's mission for us here on earth.

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha Lekh Lekha

The phone rings on the wall of Mrs. Gerda Weinblatt's kitchen in her apartment at 303 Avenue S in Brooklyn. 

"Mrs. Weinblatt?"  a voice says.  "I have Worthington Rosecroft of Lakeview Capital on the line.  Please hold."                                                                          

 There's a pause and then a man's voice comes on the phone.  "Mama," he says. 

"Stanley," she says.

"Mama, where were you?  It was Beatrix's birthday last night and she so wanted you to come.  She kept asking for her grandmother."

                "I was there, Stanley, I was there," she says.

                "What do you mean?"

                "Listen, Stanley, she says. "I left the house at four o'clock.  I walked over to the D train.  I took it to Fulton Street and walked about three blocks underground to get to the Lexington Avenue IRT.  I took that up to 77^th Street.  I got out.  I walked over to Park Avenue.  I went into your lobby at 895 Park.  I sat there for three hours.  Then I went home." 

  "What?" he says.  "Why on earth didn't you come upstairs?"

 "I couldn't remember your name."

This joke was published in the recent edition of Commentary Magazine.  This joke, it seems to me, zeros in on the Jewish anxiety about assimilation, and the tension we feel between wanting to fit in and wanting to retain our unique identities as Jews.  Worthington Rosecroft of Lakeview Capital, formerly Stanley Weinblatt of Flatbush, changes his name to both flee from his Jewish identity and to advance in the business world. He names his daughter Beatrix, a name of Latin origin meaning "one who brings blessing." Yet, he remains tied by blood and by affection to the Jewish people.  However much he disguises his identity to the outside world, he remains Gerda Weinblatt's son. The name he chooses for himself, however, is so foreign to his mother that she is unable to remember it – or, perhaps accept it. She is better able to negotiate the complicated route to his Park Avenue apartment, than she is to negotiate her son's transition from an ethnic Jew to an assimilated American.                               

In some ways the joke is dated.  After all, in today's America, Jews no longer feel the need to change their names to get ahead in business or in a profession. The Worthington Rosecrofts of the world would likely keep their given names and might well name their daughter the Modern Hebrew equivalent of Beatrix -- "Bracha". Although one might encounter the occasional anti-Semitic comment, there is relatively little discrimination against Jews in America today. 

Yet the joke reveals a tension we Jews experience that transcends the times in which we live. How different from others do we feel comfortable in being?  An interesting midrash on this week's parasha addresses that very question. In this week's Torah portion, Lekh Lekha, G-d commands Abraham to circumcise himself and all of the males of his household. The midrash relates that when G-d told Abraham to circumcise himself, he sought the advice of three friends – Aner, Eshkol, and Mamre.  Aner advises against circumcision. If the relative of one of the Kings against whom Abraham had gone to war were to come upon him, Abraham would be at a disadvantage, says Aner. Eshkol advises against it as well.  "It is dangerous at your age, 99, to perform such an operation," is his advice. Only his friend Mamre advises him to go ahead with it. Mamre points out that G-d had protected Abraham when Nimrod threw him into the fiery furnace when he was only just a boy. G-d had protected him on the long journey he and his family made to the Promised Land. G-d had protected Abraham from the Pharaoh when he traveled with this wife to Egypt. G-d had made him victorious in the war with of the Five kings. G-d had protected Abraham throughout his long life, and now, when G-d asks you to sacrifice a small bit of your body, how can you refuse? Abraham, of course, proceeds to circumcise himself.

The rabbis ask, "Since Abraham knew that G-d had protected him throughout his life – Mamre was not telling him anything he did not already know -- what was Abraham so concerned about?"  They answer: Abraham was concerned not about his safety, but about being different.  Abraham was concerned that once he did such a thing, and others found out, that he would be separated from the rest of the population of Canaan. He was concerned that nobody would listen to him or take him seriously again. He was concerned that he would become an outcast from the local peoples amongst whom he traveled.

In fact, very few people actually want to be different! We can see it in our teen-agers, who all want to dress the same way so as not to stand out from the group. We can see it in adults, who all want to keep up with the latest fashions.  There are even some in this world who believe that the way to redeem humanity is to erase all differences between people. They believe that ethnicity, class, religion and nations – everything that is unique about a person's heritage and culture – belong to an old world whose time has passed.  They see it as the root of all evil. In this view, differences are a source of strife, jealousy, and competition. Let everyone be the same, they argue, and we would usher in a new world of peace and fellowship.  Who are the first they want to give up their identity? Often, it is the Jewish people.You go first.

Natan Sharansky, the famous Soviet refusenik, actually lived in such a world. In the Soviet Union, where he grew up, Jewish history, language, and culture was legislated out of existence, as Communist authorities sought to eradicate all religious, social and economic differences among people.  All he knew was that he was a Jew, and nothing more. He grew up rootless, unconnected, and without identity, like all Soviet Jews of his generation. This taught him that personal freedom was in fact connected to strengthening ones identity, on returning to ones roots. "Only a person who is connected to his past, to his people, and to his roots can be free," he writes, "And only a free person has the strength to act for the benefit of the rest of humanity." In other words, a strong Jewish identity doesn't chain us; it roots us, and makes us freer to operate in the world for the benefit of all of human-kind.

I suppose this is what Abraham learned as well. Far from making him an outcast, circumcision strengthened his identity, and freed him, so that he was able to spread his message of the one G-d – and not only to those of his generation. The Jewish family that descended from him would continue to spread his message throughout all generations, as it continues to seek to liberate humanity from idolatry in whatever form it may take.

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha Beraisheet

Twenty Feet from Stardom

This past Monday I saw a movie called "Twenty Feet from Stardom".  It focuses on the careers of a number of African American women – Darlene Love, Merry Clayton, Lisa Fisher, Tata Vega  and Judith Hill, to name a few – who provided the background voices to the likes of Mick Jagger, Bruce Springsteen, Sting, Michael Jackson, Ike and Tina Turner, Stevie Wonder, Joe Cocker, Frank Sinatra and other famous entertainers. We have all heard these background singers on recordings and at concerts, but we do not know their names. The film asks a question that it ultimately cannot answer – What is it that makes a star? Why are some very talented people stars, while other equally talented people remain in the background, singing, quite literally twenty feet from stardom? 

All of these remarkably talented women grew up in the African American church, where they learned to sing with others in their church choirs and to blend their voices together in improvised harmonies for the sake of worship. Their fathers were often the pastors of the church in which they grew up. Yet despite a desire for a solo career, none of them became a household name.  None of them reached the top.  It was not a lack of talent. They all have abundant talent – that is evident from their performances in the film. Different theories are offered to explain this.  Perhaps, it was the lack of the appropriate material for their voices. Perhaps it was a lack of the driving ambition, the hunger -- yes, even the narcissism that propels one to stardom. Perhaps they never found the producer, the manager, that person who could help guide their career, to make them the next Aretha Franklin. Or, perhaps it was because there was already an Aretha Franklin, and there was not enough room in the public appetite for another!  The singer Sting opines that it is karma, or fate, or destiny. Whatever it is, the back-up singers who are featured in this film express a combination of gratitude, joy, acceptance, and disappointment as, now in their fifties, sixties and seventies, they look back over their professional careers – and at what "might have been."

Part of the power of this film is, I think, that we can all relate to the struggles, the disappointment and the satisfactions that these entertainers articulate about their lives.  Perhaps we have ourselves wondered why we have not become "stars" in our own chosen fields. Perhaps we too have experienced the frustration that comes with not achieving ones dreams.  We might ask, what is the difference between us and the person who has become wealthier, more acknowledged, more successful?  Is it a matter of birth, of talent, of luck, of guidance?  Were we to have studied harder, gone to the right school, been mentored by the right people, would our lives have been different?  Was it that we did not have the persistence to pursue our dreams to the utmost?  Did we not have the drive, the ambition – or was "being a star" simply not that important to us?  Were we unwilling to pay the price that the stars have paid for their fame, their position in life?  Were we born in the wrong time, or in the wrong place – or to the wrong family!    

In our parasha for this week we have the story of the creation of humankind. G-d creates all of the fish of the waters, the birds of the sky, and the beasts of the land en masse. G-d does not even give them names – that will be the task of the human.  But G-d only creates one human being.  G-d only creates a single individual from which to populate the earth.  Man is the only animal that G-d names. Our rabbis of antiquity marveled at this. "If a person strikes a coin from one mold, all of the coins that come from that mold are identical," they noted. "Each coin is exactly like the next one.  But although the Holy Blessed One fashioned every person from the mold of the first person, not a single one of them is exactly like his fellow. Therefore, each and every person should say, "The world was created for my sake."

The rabbis have it exactly correct. Each and every one of us is a unique individual. Each person has their own set of talents and interests, genetic endowments and family backgrounds. There has never been anybody like us who has ever lived, and there will never be anyone like us once we pass from this world. We ought not to try to be like anybody else. We ought to find satisfaction with who we are, where we are, and what we have accomplished. This was what those who were twenty feet from stardom came to accept and to understand.  This is what the viewers of the movie came to understand as well – that each artist that was portrayed is a "star" in their own right.

The story is told that when Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol was dying, his disciples gathered around his bedside, hoping to hear one last word of wisdom from him. He said to them, "My students, know that I am not worried that when I come before the Throne on High, that they will ask me 'Zusya, why were you not a great leader like Moses?'  If they ask me that question, I have my answer ready. I will say to the Court, 'Because You did not give me the courage and the ability to lead that You gave Moses.'"

"And I am not worried that they will ask me, 'Zusya, why did you not teach your people wisdom, as Maimonides did?' Because if they ask me that, I have my answer ready, I will say to them, 'Because You did not give me the profound intellect that You gave Maimonides.'"

"But there is one question that I fear they may ask me. If they do, I have no answer. What keeps me awake every night, and what worries me so much is what will I say if they should ask me, 'Zusya, why were you not Zusya?'"

May we have the courage to be ourselves, and to develop our unique talents and capacities to the fullest extent possible.  We are not twenty feet from stardom. Each of us is a star in our own right as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yom Kippur Morning 5774

Second Chances

Members of our congregation are wonderful when it comes to asking questions.  Some of my best sermons, I think, are based on questions that congregants ask me.  I would venture to say that even the most inquisitive minds in our congregation have never even thought to ask the question I am about to address!  Now that would be an obscure question indeed!  The question:  Why is it that we observe Yom Kippur when we do? Now you are scratching your heads. Of course, the Torah tells us that we should observe Yom Kippur on the Tenth of Tishre, following Rosh HaShanah, and that is why we observe it when we do. If that were the answer – I would not have much of a sermon today!  What I mean is this – We know the reasons for why we celebrate all of our other holidays when we do. We celebrate Passover when we do because it is the anniversary of the Exodus from Egypt. We celebrate Shavuot when we do because it marks the day of the giving of the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai. We celebrate Chanukah when we do because it marks the anniversary of the re-dedication of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Maccabees. Rosh Hashanah marks the date of the Creation of the World. But, do you know what event occurred on Yom Kippur that makes it a propitious time to ask forgiveness from G-d?

To begin to answer that question, we have to go back three Jewish months from our month, Tishre. That brings us to the Jewish month of Sivan. On the 6^th day of the month of Sivan, Moses receives the Ten Commandments for the first time.  We mark that occasion with the holiday of Shavuot.  Moses then stays on Mount Sinai for forty days. Fearing that Moses will never return, the Israelites fashion a Golden Calf to worship in G-d's stead. G-d tells Moses what is happening, and Moses descends Mount Sinai . As he approaches the Israelite encampment, he sees the people dancing around and worshipping the Golden Calf.  Moses smashes the set of tablets on which the Ten Commandments are written. Moses punishes those who are responsible for leading the people into sin. Then, on the first day of the month of Elul, Moses again ascends the Holy Mountain to ask forgiveness from G-d for the Israelite's sin. Were the Jewish people still G-d's people after all that had happened? Could G-d ever forgive us for the sin of the Golden Calf? Finally, after another 40 days on the mountain, G-d agrees to forgive the people and takes them back in love. The Jewish people would be given a second chance. G-d shows Moses how to prevent further calamities, which, like that of the sin of the Golden Calf, threaten to stir up G-d's anger and lead to the punishment of the Jewish people.  G-d gives Moses a prayer, which we call the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy. The Jewish people can invoke this prayer throughout the ages to beseech G-d to turn from anger and punishment when we sin to compassion and forgiveness.  That prayer – Adonai Adonai kel rechum ve-chanun – is invoked throughout our Yom Kippur services, and at other services during the year as well. G-d forgives the Jewish people for the Sin of the Golden Calf on the tenth of Tishre, the day on which we celebrate Yom Kippur. As a sign of that forgiveness, G-d gives Moses a second set of Ten Commandments, which Moses brings down from the mountain and deposits in the Holy Ark. We have come before G-d on the anniversary of that date every year since, on a day that we call Yom Kippur – the Day of Atonement -- to ask forgiveness for the sins which we have committed as individuals and as a community in the past year.

That means that the celebration of Yom Kippur rests on an event that we never even mention on the day itself – the giving, and the receiving, of this second set of tablets. This second set of Tablets of the Ten Commandments was different than the first. The Torah tells us that the first set of Ten Commandments was fashioned totally by G-d – G-d carved the tablets and wrote upon them himself. The Torah tells us that Moses carved this second set of tablets himself and brought them up the mountain, where G-d then wrote upon them. 

That first set of commandments, carved and written entirely by G-d, imposed upon us, the Jewish people, demands that we could not bear. Our ancestors who left Egypt felt they could not possibly live up to the standards of such a direct encounter with divinity itself. They were overwhelmed by the preciousness of that gift and the godlike behavior that was expected of us -- Hence, the flight into the worship of the Golden Calf. With it, at least, they would fashion for themselves a god to whom they could more easily relate.  

With the second set of commandments, G-d appears to have learned a lesson. That second set of commandments was the result of a partnership, a collaboration, between Moses and G-d. Moses carves the tablets, and G-d writes upon them. This was a joint divine-human process. In the first set of tablets, G-d expects perfection. It is too much for human beings to handle. With the second set of tablets G-d recognizes that Jewish life would have to be a divine-human partnership. G-d would give the laws, but it would be for human beings to interpret them.  This left room for human frailties, and human inconsistencies, human vulnerabilities. It was this set of tablets that the Israelites carried with them in the desert and has kept us company ever since.

This is the comforting message of Yom Kippur. We can be less than perfect. We can make mistakes and be forgiven. We can aim high and fall short. We can recognize our imperfections, our shortcomings, our faults, and know that just as G-d forgives us, we can forgive the flaws in ourselves.  We can forgive others. Just as G-d gave the Jewish people a second chance at Sinai at the beginning of our history as a people, so G-d gives each one of us a second chance to mend out ways, again and again, and again, year after year.

We need those second chances. We fall short of our own aspirations all the time.  If you are have had a bar or bat mitzvah here, did you make a promise to yourself to continue coming to services on Sunday mornings, only to decide that it was easier to sleep in. Did you say, "After my bar mitzvah I am going to come to services once a month" …. But then always found a reason you could not come? If you are an adult, did you promise to yourself that you would learn more about Judaism this year – but you never followed through on your promise, and here you are, a year later, knowing nothing more about your religion than you did last year?  Did you resolve to work harder last year, to grow your business, to pursue that promotion, only to fall short? As a husband and wife, did you promise you would work on your relationship last year, only to find it was easier to put things off than to confront difficult issues? Did you say you would be more financially responsible this year, save more for your children's college fund or your own retirement, give more to tsedaka, only to fall back into the same old spending habits? Did you promise yourselves to break that old habit, to improve your diet, to learn a musical instrument, to read more, to watch TV less, to spend more time with your family, to enroll in that continuing ed course, to volunteer for your community, to be more environmentally conscious, to take up a hobby, to live a healthier lifestyle. Do not be discouraged. It is never too late to achieve to start something new, to achieve a goal, to reach for a dream.

One exceptional recent inspiration is Diana Nyad. She is the 64 year old woman you may have read about a couple of weeks ago.  After 53 hours of swimming, fighting the tides, the weather, the jellyfish, the danger of sharks, fighting off sleep and exhaustion and nausea, Diana Nyad completed the 112 miles swim from Cuba to Key West. Emerging from the water, she fell into the arms of a friend and said, "I did it, I did it!"

It really did not take Diana Nyad 53 hours of swimming to reach the beaches of Key West. It took her 35 years to swim from Cuba to Key West. She had tried and failed four times previously. In her first attempt, in 1978, she was 29 years old!

Experience, determination, learning from her past mistakes, a lot of courage and a little luck combined to bring a successful conclusion to Diana Nyad's fifth attempt to swim from Cuba to Florida. When asked by reporters what she had learned from her experience she replied:

"I learned three things. First, never give up on your dreams. Second, you are never, never, too old to pursue your dream. Third, swimming may seem like a solitary sport. It is not. It takes a whole team to help."

I believe the same lessons are applicable to Teshuvah, to repentance.  First, we should never give up on our desire to change, to grow, to make our lives better.  Judaism teaches that mankind is created in the image of G-d, that we are "little lower than the angels". There is greatness, nobility, a spark of the divine, in each and every one of us. Diana Nyad's accomplishment just hints at our potential to accomplish the impossible and the improbable in our own lives.

The second lesson of Diana Nyad's that applies to Teshuva – We are never too old to change and to grow. Harvard professor Sarah Lawrence Lightfoot has done research into the learning process of older adults. She notes that the things we learn in school – "competition, speed, the single pursuit of achievement, and hiding our failures" give way as we get older to qualities that support growth and change such as "patience, collaboration and restraint."  As we get older we tend to let go of our fear of failure, of our sensitivity to being criticized, and are more willing to take risks, to put allow ourselves to be vulnerable. Lawrence-Lightfoot tells stories of people who after long, successful careers take tentative, courageous steps into uncharted adventures—such as painting, sculpting, jazz piano playing—where failure is public, and growth requires the ability to seek and appreciate criticism of one's work. We can change, we can grow, we can become better human beings, no matter if we are 64, 84 or a hundred and four!

And her last lesson was: "I couldn't have done it by myself. If it were not for the five support boats and the 35 people who went with me, if it were not for my coaches and my companions, if it were not for the people who designed my face mask and my bathing suit, and who went into the water to send those electronic pulses that kept the sharks away---if it were not for all those people, I would not have made it.

That too is a lesson for Teshuva. We are not alone. Remember that we have friends, we have family, we have fellow congregants, we have clergy and teachers who will help and support us in our desire to change and grow. There are people in our synagogue, in our community, who are on the same journey that we are. "For a permanent solution to easing tension and soothe the rough waters of the world that cause people to go to drugs, drinking, gambling, pornography, overeating, or anything that will give them some temporary relief, you can't beat the support and encouragement of a friend," writes the author Jonathan Anthony Burkett.

With the support of friends and our confidence in G-d's love for us, no change, no challenge, is too great.

Shana Tova Tikatevu

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kol Nidre 5774

This Day of Judgment

 A few weeks ago, a young man, Michael Brandon Hill, walked armed into the McNair Elementary School in Georgia and barricaded himself into a small office, and threatened a massacre.  The only person standing between him and another Sandy Hook was the school bookkeeper, Antoinette Tuff. Perhaps you heard the riveting, heart-stopping and poignant recording to 911 that was later released to the public. Tears welled in my eyes as I heard it. Were it not for the courage and level-headedness of this woman, a tragedy would have ensued.

What came through in that 911 call was Antoinette Tuff's understanding and compassion for the person who was threatening her only a few steps away.  "Don't feel bad, baby," she was heard saying to Hill during the ordeal, "My husband just left me after 33 years. I've got a son that's mentally disabled. We all got something in life." "I'm proud of you, it's a good thing you are giving up. No, Michael, we're not going to hate you ….. But I just want you to know that I love you. We all go through something in life. I thought the same thing as you. I tried to commit suicide after my husband left me. But look at me now, I'm alright. I'm working and everything. Everything's going to be alright. Guess what Michael? My last name was Hill too. My mom was a Hill."

Notice what Antoinette Tuffs did NOT say. She did not judge him. She did not tell him he was doing the wrong thing. She expressed her understanding of what he was going through. She saw him not as a deranged person, or a bad person, but as a person in pain crying out for help.  She somehow found it in her heart to reach out in genuine love to a confused, unhinged, and dangerous young man. I do not know how she did it. "I give it all to G-d," she said, "I'm no hero. I was terrified."

Antoinette Tuffs, in fact, treated Michael Brandon Hill like a good parent might treat a wayward child. It is an extreme example, for sure, but very telling. The Ball Shem Tov, the founder of Hassidism, was once approached by a woman whose son was doing something bad.  She asked him, "What should I do?" The Baal Shem Tov asked her some questions about her son. He asked her what might have led to her son to do what he was doing. He asked her about her son's upbringing. He asked her about the role of her son's father in his life.  Then he said to her, "Love him even more."

"Love him even more." Some of us may not agree with the Baal Shem Tov.  The Jewish tradition has not always acted in the spirit of the Baal Shem Tov.  I want to share two examples of this.  When I was a child in Scranton, Pennsylvania, I knew of families that sat shiva for their children who defied their wishes and married outside of the Jewish faith. Do you know why parents did that at the time -- and our rabbis supported them?  They made the judgment that in marrying outside of the faith, their child was rejecting them and rejecting Judaism.  Few people would make a similar judgment today.  Attitudes have changed. Rabbi Menachem Penner, acting dean at Yeshiva University's rabbinical school, the flagship institution of Modern Orthodoxy, speaks for most when he says, "Once you've intermarried, it does not mean you've left the Jewish faith." Yet how many were pushed away and lost to Judaism because of our severe judgments of years past?  

A second example of how our tradition has not always reached out in love and understanding is illustrated in a film called "Nora's Will."  Two weeks ago about forty of our congregants gathered in this sanctuary for Selichot services and to watch this movie.  It deals with the reactions of family and community to a chronically depressed woman who eventually succeeds in taking her own life. The film brilliantly displays the range of thoughts and emotions that family members experience when a person they love commits suicide. It also shows how severely the family's rabbi judged this woman who took her own life. He felt she had brazenly defied G-d's will by taking her life. Because she had contemptuously spurned G-d's greatest gift, she was not entitled to traditional mourning rites.  She would be buried in a section of the cemetery reserved for criminals. He represented how much of our tradition responded to suicide in bygone eras. Bewildered and perplexed, the family sought and found another rabbi who was more compassionate and understanding. "We should not judge," said this Rabbi, "For who could truly understand what goes on in the mind of a person who makes such a choice." By not being judgmental, this rabbi helped the family to heal from both the loss of their mother and from wounds of the past.

Yom Kippur is called "Yom HaDin" the Day of Judgment. It is a day when we stand before our Creator for our final judgment. Only G-d has the right to judge us.

When our children go astray, it is not the time to judge them or to punish them. It is the time to love them even more. Rabbi Jack Riemer tells the story about a friend of his, an Orthodox woman who lives in Israel. This woman has a daughter who broke with the family and broke with everything that the family stood for. The daughter gave up Shabbat observance and keeping Kosher, and all the things that were valued in the family in which she grew up. This mother could have judged her daughter harshly and could have broken with her. What did this mother do instead? She decided that she was not going to lose her child, no matter what. If her child's home was not kosher, she went there anyway. She brought along her own food to eat, but she went there anyway. If her daughter did not go to synagogue any longer, her mother went to synagogue and then went to visit her. If her daughter did not keep Passover in her own home, she invited her for seder at her house, just the same. Regardless of her daughter's choices, this mother remained steady and consistently conveyed her love for her child.

Eventually, the daughter came back to the family, and has come back to Judaism.  That is the story Rabbi Riemer tells. I want to add a cautionary note. This worked in this particular situation only because the mother was authentic and sincere in her unconditional love for her daughter.  She was not trying to manipulate her daughter into returning to her family's way of life. She was willing to accept all outcomes. Many stories like this have a different ending. Our children are not going to do what we want, just because we love them and reach out to them.  But love them and reach out to them we must.

How many times have we made judgments about other people without knowing the entire story?  We are taught on Yom Kippur that G-d has before Him two sets of books – Sifrei Chayim and Sifrei Meitim – the Books of the Living and the Books of the Dead. We have been taught the two sets of books are open so that G-d can write our names into one of them for the coming year.  However, there is another interpretation of this metaphor of judgment. The Books of the Living contain all of the names of those who are alive today. The Books of the Dead contain all the names of those who have gone before us. G-d consults the Books of the Dead to make decisions about how to judge the living. G-d examines our past to determine our judgment. If a person has been raised in a deprived situation; if their parents' lives, for example, were more about survival and this kept them from teaching him about Judaism and about the distinctions between right and wrong, then the expectations of him are less, and G-d judges him less severely. If a person, however, has been raised with all of the advantages of life; if his or her parents were privileged and well educated in Jewish matters and secular matters; if they got along with one another and taught him right from wrong,; then the expectations of this person are greater, and G-d judges him more strictly if he sins. Human beings do not have the capacity that G-d has to grasp the totality of a person's life. We should therefore refrain from judging, for we know not the advantages or disadvantages that a person has had in their life, what they have had to endure, what obstacles they have had to overcome.   

This principle is beautifully illustrated in this classic Chassidic story. There was once a rabbi who was a great scholar. He filled his life with acts of chesed and tsedakah. He knew he would be justly rewarded in the world to come. So he prayed to G-d to let him see who his study partner would be when he reached heaven. G-d answered by taking him to the workshop of the village shoemaker. Day in and day out this worn little man made shoes. Yet he seemed to have little to show for it. He was very poor. The man never took time to study; he badly needed to bathe and a change of clothes. The rabbi was very upset. "After all these years of study and good deeds, this man in to be my study partner in the World to Come?" he bellowed. What kind of justice is this! G-d answered, "Go talk to the shoemaker."

The rabbi introduced himself. The shoemaker answered, "I have heard of your great piety. I wish I had the time to go and learn with you. But who has the time? All day I work hard to make shoes for the rich; they pay my living. And then, when there is leather left over, all night I work hard to make shoes for the poor. Nobody should be without shoes because they cannot afford it."

The rabbi then turns to G-d. "Ribono Shel Olam," he says, "Master of the Universe, I am not worthy to sit with him." [1]

Exercising fair, sound judgment is one of our most important life skills. Yet, we often, like the all too human rabbi in this story, judge based on initial impressions or appearances. Many times we do not take the time to look deeply into a situation or into a person. We judge others, often negatively, on the basis of superficial factors -- the type of work they do, the clothing that they wear, the neighborhood they live in, the way that they speak, to name a few -- and then act according to those assumptions.

Let us try, this year, to judge others as we would have others judge us, as we say in Hebrew, le-khaf ze-chut, with generosity. There is a saying in Judaism that G-d judges us in the same way that we judge others. If we are kind in our judgments and give others the benefit of the doubt; if we look beyond appearances and take the time to examine the matter and examine it deeply, then G-d will be kind in His judgments with us and give us the benefit of the doubt. If, on the other hand, we are narrow- minded in our perspective and judge others unkindly, G-d will do the same with us. 

I close with this prayer composed by an anonymous author, which is found on the wall of Rachel's Tomb in Bethlehem:

                Oh Lord, please help me, guide me and show me /the straight path so that I avoid stumbling /in unworthy pursuits and refrain from speaking/in a way that is not in accordance with Your will. May I merit to be good to everyone/and may I not seek out people's failings./Rather, may I always use all my capabilities to find /worth in each and every person…..Through Your mercy, may I always judge others favorably; may you bestow upon me the intelligence to understand how to search for and find redeeming factors, strengths and virtues in /my fellow at all times.[2]

On this Yom Kippur, on this Yom HaDin, this Day of Judgment, may we all be judged by our Creator with compassion, with mercy, with understanding and with wisdom – and judge our fellows the same way!

 

 

 

 

 

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[1] As told by Rabbi Michael Gold

[2] I am grateful to Rabbi Mitch Wohlberg for the prayer and the translation. 

Rosh Hashana Day 1 Sermon

The Kittel

The story is told that Elijah the prophet once showed up to a wedding dressed as a beggar. "Please sir," he asked the father of the bride, "May I come in and have a bite to eat." Seeing this disheveled man standing before him, the father of the bride ordered to leave – and quickly, too, or else he would call the butler to boot him out.

A while later, Elijah returned, this time dressed in a well-tailored suit, an elegant sable hat and carrying a cane with a golden handle.  He was greeted warmly by the father of the bride and seated at the table with the bride and the groom.  As each course of the meal was served, he took its contents and shoved it into his pockets – meat in his right pocket, potatoes in his left, carrots in his vest pocket … and then poured fine red wine over it all!

Of course, the guests sat there astonished. What, on earth, was he doing?  Then Elijah explained. "When I came to your door dressed as a beggar, you practically threw me out. But when I came dressed as a wealthy man, you could not do enough for me. Clearly, it is the clothing that you honor, not the man. Since you showed such respect for my clothes, why should I not feed them at your wedding feast?"

This morning, your rabbi and cantor stand before you dressed in special clothing for Rosh Hashannah. The clothing is not elaborate, nor gaily colored, nor fashionably tailored. The clothing I am wearing is called a kittel.  It is a Yiddish word, very close to the German word for "plain housecoat". In some communities, it is customary for everyone in the congregation to come dressed in a kittel on Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur.  This morning I am going to speak about four meanings of the kittel and its significance for these holidays. Wearing of the kittel symbolizes 1) our equality in the eyes of G-d, 2)the potential that lay within each and every one of us, 3)G-d' s love for us, and 4)the fragility and uncertainty of life.

First: Our equality before G-d --

The kittel did not originate as clothing for Rosh Hashanah, but as burial clothing. Two thousand years ago, in what was then called Palestine, the leader of the Jewish people was named Rabban Gamliel.  He was from an aristocratic family and was very wealthy. At the time, the upper strata of society would bury their dead in expensive garments such as silk and royal garb. It was said that for the common folk, burying a relative was even more emotionally difficult for them than the death itself. They felt ashamed that they could not bury their beloved in the expensive garments of the wealthy, and so took to abandoning the body and leaving it to be buried at public expense.  They felt such shame that they could not give their relative a "proper burial" that they abdicated doing the burial at all!  When Rabban Gamliel died he requested his body be buried in inexpensive linen clothing. Everyone, from every class of society, began to follow the example he set. They buried their dead in plain linen garments. Feeling no more shame, the poor began attending to their dead again!

This plain burial shroud of Rabban Gamliel, the kittel put everyone on an equal footing, and came to symbolize our equality in G-d's eyes on this holiday. G-d cares not for the external superficialities by which we may cloak ourselves; G-d is not fooled by the expensive clothing we may wear, or the grand houses we may live in, the luxurious cars we may drive, the fancy clubs we may belong to – the standards by which human beings often judge one another.  The kittel is a reminder that G-d sees right through us. G-d sees beyond our material trappings into our very souls.

Second:  The kittel symbolizes the potential in each and every one of us

But why wear a white garment on Rosh Hashannah? This is the beginning of the Ten Days of Repentance, when we examine our sins and ask G-d for forgiveness.  At our afternoon service on Yom Kippur we will once again read the story of Jonah. Jonah travels to Ninveh and proclaims that in forty days Ninveh shall be overthrown. In response, the people proclaim a fast and put on SACKCLOTH. Word gets to the king and he, wanting to repent, also fasts and puts on sackcloth -- a course garment made of cotton or hemp. Elsewhere in the Bible, for example in the Book of Daniel, people don sackcloth when they repent. Why did our tradition not turn toward sackcloth as the traditional garb for the High Holidays?

Fortunately, we do not wear sackcloth – thank heavens, it sounds very itchy! – but rather the special garments that the High Priest wore in the Temple in Jerusalem on Yom Kippur. The High Priest was dressed in white linen when he made his confession in the Temple in Jerusalem on Yom Kippur. The whiteness of his garments symbolizes the spirit of purity and humility with which he approached G-d on that day. By wearing white, we recall the garments of the High Priest in the days when our Temple stood in Jerusalem. These white garments serve as both a connection to our ancient past and a as reminder that we are "a nation of priests". In Judaism there is no society of holy men and women who have special knowledge that only they have access to. It is part of our belief in the United States that any child born here can someday grow up to be President.  In Judaism, we believe that with the proper education, anyone can aspire to be like Moses!  Rabbi David de Sola Pool calls this "the democracy of holiness."

Third: The Kittel symbolizes G-d's love for us:

The wearing of white on Rosh Hashannah also symbolizes that even as we stand in judgment on Rosh Hashanah, this day should not be viewed as a somber day.  We might very well think it would be a somber day. After all, tradition holds that on Rosh Hashannah the entire world, not only the Jewish people, come before G-d in judgment. As our prayers say, we are judged as to "who will live and who will die, who by fire and who by water…" These are sobering, even terrifying thoughts.  Consider the experience of Mathew Schrier. He is a 35 year old American war photographer whose story of capture by jihadi rebel forces in Syria in December 2012 was in the newspaper this summer. You may have heard about him. He was held for seven months without charges. He had no idea why he was being held, only that he was being held for trial before an "Islamic Court".  "In your country you have a saying," his guard, Abdullah told him one night, 'Innocent until proven guilty.' Here we have the opposite. You are guilty until proven innocent. We do not know who you are."

Just imagine what that must be like! To come before such a court in judgment must be a soul shattering experience. Fortunately, Mathew Schrier was able to escape from his captors before he was brought before this court. The Jerusalem Talmud describes someone in this situation. It notes that when a man comes before a judge for a trial, he commonly dresses in black, and wears a black cloak. He grows his beard, for he does not know the verdict that is to be handed down.  He is terrified, and ready for the worst. His is in fear and in mourning for his life! This is not the case, however, says the Talmud, with the Jewish people when we come before G-d in judgment.  We wear white, we cut our beards and we eat, and we drink and we are happy. Why? Because, says the Talmud, we have confidence that G-d, who loves the Jewish people, will be merciful and forgive us for our sins. We are certain that G-d will accept our repentance. We are not strangers to G-d. G-d knows who we are. G-d is like a compassionate parent, and we have no reason to fear, for we are certain that if our repentance is sincere, G-d will judge us kindly on this day.

Fourth: The kittel confronts us with our mortality

The wearing of a kittel, the garb that we will someday be buried in, is a reminder that we do not know the day that we are going to die. It may be tomorrow. We better be prepared. The Talmud tells us that Rabbi Eliezer had a favorite saying. "Repent one day before you die." He students asked him, "How do you know which day it is that you are going to die?" Rabbi Eliezer replied, "You do not. That is why you must repent every day of your life."

We may not know when we are going to die. Neither do we know how we are going to die – this knowledge is beyond human power or human control. But there is one thing within our power, within our control -- we can determine how we live. We can make peace with ourselves, and we can make peace with others. We can reconcile with our loved ones.  We can get our affairs in order, so that others do not have to clean up the messes we leave behind.  We do not have an infinite amount of time to do this. In truth, we do not know how much time we have. Therefore, we must act today.

I hope you will remember that the kittel we wear represents the idea that no matter what our station in life we all stand before our Creator today as equals;  I hope you will take away with you the phrase "the democracy of holiness" and the idea that each of us has infinite potential for holiness, I hope you will remember why these holidays are joyful, not somber days; I hope you will be more determined to live each day with love, and cherish each moment, and do not delay. With that last thought in mind, I close with this true story.

It is from a book called, My Grandfather's Blessings, by Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen. Dr. Remen was brought up by parents who were atheists and by a spiritual and mystical grandfather who died when she was seven.  She remembers the Friday afternoon rituals with him, and how after he lit the candles, he would turn to her and say, "Come, Neshumeleh". 

"Then I would stand in front of him and he would rest his hands lightly on the top of my head. He would begin by thanking God for me and for making him my grandpa.  He would specifically mention my struggles during that week and tell God something about me that was true.

Each week, I would wait to find out what that was. If I had made mistakes during the week, he would mention my honesty in telling the truth. If I had failed, he would appreciate how hard I tried." 

Remen went on saying, "These few moments were the only time in my week when I felt completely safe and at rest.  My family of physicians and professionals were always struggling to accomplish more. It was never enough. If I brought home a 98 on a test, my father would ask, "What happened to the other 2 points."  But for my grandfather, I was already enough.  And somehow when I was with him, I knew with absolute certainty that this was so. He called me by his special name, Neshumeleh, which means 'beloved little soul'.

After he died, no one called me that anymore.  At first I was afraid that without him to see me and tell God who I was, I might disappear.  But slowly I came to understand that I had learned to see myself through his eyes. And that once blessed, we are blessed forever.

Many years later when, in her extreme old age, my mother surprisingly began to light Shabbat candles.  I told her about the blessings from my grandfather and what they meant to me.  She had smiled at me sadly. "I have blessed you every day of your life, Rachel. But unlike your grandfather, I just never had the wisdom to do it out loud."

"Today, we are reminded of the urgency of this moment. We wear white to keep in mind how essential it is to say: I love You, I bless you.  I forgive you, please forgive me.  I admire you; I appreciate what you have done, Thank you…

Say these words OUT LOUD, and regularly, to the people who are in your life.  Every one of us is a unique gift and a blessing in this troubled world.  We do matter and we can make a difference.  Let this year be the time to make it so!"[1]

May we all be granted another healthy and meaningful good year. AMEN

 

 

 

 

 

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[1] Concluding Quotation from Rabbi Toba August from her Kol Nidre Sermon "Say It Out Loud". Rabbi August inspired this sermon.