Famous Last Words -- Parasha Vayechi

Tonight I would like to talk about last words...

Jacob Blessing His Sons  François Maitre
Miniature, 1475 The Hague

In Act ll of Richard the Second, Shakespeare tells us that:

The tongues of dying men 
Enforce attention like deep harmony: 
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain, 
For they breathe truth/ that breathe their words in pain. 

This week’s parasha recounts  the dying words of  our Father Jacob. As you recall  Jacob has brought his entire family to Egypt and for seventeen years has been re-united with his beloved son Joseph. The parasha opens with Jacob summoning his children to his bedside. With his last words Jacob rebukes some of his sons, prays for others, gives blessings to some, recalls memories, shares psychological insights, delivers warnings and imparts hope. After blessing his youngest son, Benjamin, Jacob speaks no more. The Torah tells us that he gathers his feet into his bed and is “gathered to his people” which is  the Bible’s way of telling us that  he has died. The Torah  also recounts the  death of Joseph  in this week’s parasha.   With his last words, Joseph reassures his family that G-d has not forgotten about them. He makes his family promise that when they return to the Promised Land, they will take his bones with them for burial in his home.

This week’s prophetic portion contains the dying words of another great man in the Bible, that of King David. David is of course a great poet-king. Tradition ascribes to King David the writing of the psalms. But David was also a warrior and a politician. In this death-bed scene, David is speaking to his son and his successor to the throne, Solomon. He instructs Solomon to be strong and to follow the teachings of Moses. Then King David turns to unfinished business. He instructs Solomon to deal harshly with two enemies of David so that they should not go unpunished for actions they took against David in the past. He also instructs Solomon to continue to support a man who befriended David in the past. Then King David dies.

Shakespeare writes that when time is short, and words are precious, as on a deathbed, they have a significance that beg attention. Indeed, Throughout history  people have been fascinated by the final words of famous people. Is it true that they carry deep meaning? Steve Jobs was reported to have confessed on his deathbed that his great wealth and fame have brought him little happiness. It was widely reported that with his final breaths, Jobs said, “The wealth I have won in my life I cannot bring with me. What I can bring is only the memories precipitated by love.” Only that was not true. He never said anything like that. According to Steve Job’s sister, his last words were, “Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow.”

When Groucho Marx was dying, he let out one last quip: “This is no way to live!”

When  Benjamin Franklin lay dying at the age of 84, his daughter told him to change position in bed so he could breathe more easily. Franklin’s last words were, “A dying man can do nothing easy.”

When Harriet Tubman was dying in 1913, she gathered her family around and they sang together. Her last words were, “Swing low, sweet chariot.”

Frank Sinatra died after saying, “I’m losing it.”

Marie Antoinette stepped on her executioner’s foot on her way to the guillotine. Her last words: “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.”

Sir Winston Churchill’s last words were, “I’m bored with it all.”

Clearly, few people reach the eloquence of Jacob, of Joseph, or of David, in their final words. There is a way, however, that our final words can be more memorable, and more significant, than those of the above.  Judaism has the tradition of leaving an ethical will. This is a written document passed onto our survivors that articulates our values, memories and hopes for the future.  Jack Riemer and Nathaniel Stampfer wrote a book that collected almost 100 ethical wills from both famous and ordinary people. The book, which is in our synagogue library, also operates as a “how to” to write one’s own ethical will.

Writing an ethical will is not easy, as evidenced by our own experience here at CBS. A few years ago, a congregant did multi-session program for us in our Thursday morning study group. The goal was to help us each write an ethical will. Out of 20 or so people who started the process, to my knowledge, only one of us (not me) completed an ethical will. In the introduction to the book on Ethical Wills, the author contemplates as to why it is such a difficult task. He concludes 1) It is difficult for us to face our own mortality, to write something that is meant to be read after our death 2) To write an Ethical Will requires “convictions” – the ability to articulate our own values and the values we want to transmit to our children. Today, in an era where the highest value we may hold is the ability to choose for oneself, we find it difficult to tell our children how we think they should live their lives. We want them to be happy, and whatever way they might find happiness is fine with us. 3) To write an ethical will requires some knowledge of the Jewish tradition.  Many JEWS  are not confident in their understanding of Jewish tradition, and therefore they give up in their effort.

Still, one need not be steeped in Jewish thought, nor be a philosopher, to have one’s last words remembered. Here is an ethical will from a working class Jewish immigrant to the United States from Riga, Latvia:

My dear children:  I am writing this in the bank. This is what I want from you children: Evelyn, Bernice and Allen to be to one another – good sisters and brother. Daddy and I love the three of you very much, and we did our best raising you and gave you the best education we could afford. Be good to each other. Help one another if, “G-d forbid” in need. This is my wish.  Love all of you, Your Mother.

Although simple on the surface I am certain it had a profound effect on this woman’s children as it  comes straight from her heart. We should all think about what we want our last words to be. As Shakespeare says, our truest, most lasting words are often those we speak at the end.

Shabbat Shalom

Our Responsibility to One Another

It happens three or four times a year. I will be sitting in my office and I receive a call from a Chaplain at a hospital or a social worker in a nursing home. Upon hearing from the family that they are Jewish, the Chaplain or social worker contacts me on their behalf. “There is a Jewish patient who would like to see a Rabbi,” they say. Am I available for a visit? The last time I got such a request I visited with the family within a few hours.

As I entered the room I was greeted by a young man about 30 years of age who introduced himself as the patient’s  youngest son. The young man’s wife was at his side. Another son was standing at the foot of his father’s bed. The first son explained that his father had a stroke several days previously. Although he was initially expected to recover, things took a turn for the worse. They had made the decision to remove their father from the respirator that afternoon. As we talked, he told me his story. The parents had belonged to a synagogue when they were growing up, and both sons had celebrated their bar mitzvahs. After their bar mitzvahs the family gradually began to distance themselves from the organized Jewish community. They volunteered that their father, who according to them had an Orthodox upbringing, had not been to synagogue in many years. They themselves weren’t sure whether they wanted the presence of a rabbi, but the Chaplain was encouraging it, and they decided to allow her call me. They told me they were unsure their father would have wanted it. Perhaps also, they were embarrassed at not having a rabbi to call. I told them I thought it was a good decision. No matter how far people may stray from Judaism or the Jewish community, at times of major life moments – the birth of a child, a bar or bat mitzvah, a marriage, at time of a serious illness or impending death  -- people  seek the guidance of a rabbi. We talked some more about their father, their relationship to him and their ordeal over the past few days. We read some psalms together and spoke about their meaning. They asked about Heaven and whether his father would see his own parents after death. I recited the prayer that a rabbi recites over a critically ill person, in Hebrew and in English.

There is an enormous need for this type of outreach, not only to people who are in hospitals, but for those who are isolated in nursing homes or people who are shut in their own homes. Sixty five percent of Jews do not belong to a synagogue and have no one to call when they are in need of spiritual help.  I was aware that there are not enough rabbis to meet these needs. However, I learned how critical and urgent these needs are through my recent participation in the Jewish Community Chaplaincy Planning Steering Committee.  This committee just completed a major project of developing a model of chaplaincy services for the Chicago Jewish community that is sustainable and has broad based community support. We met four times at JFS of Skokie since September pf this year. Out of our work emerged a funding proposal to develop a Jewish Community Chaplaincy program over a two year period. The program will start small and gradually expand as additional sources of funding are identified.

Why bother? After all, what is the Jewish community’s responsibility to Jews who have essentially disconnected themselves from Judaism and who no longer support Jewish institutions? That obligation was established long ago, as our parasha of this week demonstrates. If you recall, Joseph has framed Benjamin by placing a silver goblet into his saddlebag. Joseph tells his brothers that, as punishment for the crime, Benjamin will become Joseph’s slave. Judah, Benjamin’s older half brother, steps forward and offers to become Joseph’s slave in Benjamin’s stead. Upon hearing Judah’s plea on his brother’s behalf, Joseph reveals to his brothers that he is – their brother, who they once sold into slavery.

There are many reasons put forth as to why Joseph went through this elaborate ruse before revealing himself to his brothers. Some commentators say that Joseph wants to find out if the brothers felt a responsibility toward one another. One could say this was sort of a test. If they did not feel responsible for one another’s welfare, they would not survive the move to Egypt that Joseph knew they had to make. In pleading for his brother and offering himself in his place, Judah passed the test. This responsibility that one Jew has toward another is called “arevut” in Hebrew.

This principle is illustrated by the following story. A Jewish immigrant arrives on New York’s Lower East Side and desperately seeks the company of other Jews. Not knowing whom, or where, they might be, he goes out into the street and shouts in Yiddish, “Man schlogt Yiddn! – They are beating the Jews!” Several people immediately surround him and demand to know where this is happening. The man replied, “In my village in Russia; I only wanted to know whether anyone here cared.”

Jews have always felt that obligation to one another.  In our Thursday morning study group we learned that the Jews of ancient Rome sent so much gold to support the Temple in Jerusalem that the Roman Senate passed a law forbidding the export of gold out of the Roman province. That sense of responsibility for one another, no matter where a Jew is in the world, has been passed down through the generations to the present day. So where there is a need – even for a Jew who has absented him or herself from the Jewish community – we make every effort to fill it. That is the Jewish way.

Shabbat Shalom 

The Many Meanings of Chanukah

Rabbi Mark Greenspan tells a story about Chanukah that he heard on a visit to Cuba two years ago. The Island of Cuba had, at its height,  a Jewish population of about 15,000 people, mostly in Havana. As a result of the Cuban revolution, 95% of the Jews left the island.  Although Jews were discriminated against, along with others who practiced a religion, Jewish practice was permitted. Because of the collapse of the Soviet Union, and its concomitant economic hardships, the Cuban government liberalized its policies and allowed members of the communist party to participate in religious associations. This led to a rejuvenation of Judaism in Cuba. In 1998, Adela Dworin, president of the Patronato, the largest synagogue in Havana, approached Fidel Castro at a public gathering and asked him why he hadn’t visited the synagogue. Fidel answered: "Because no one invited me!" Mrs. Dworin immediately extended an invitation to Castro to join in the Chanukah celebration with the Jewish community. Unfamiliar with the holiday, Fidel asked "What is Chanukah?"

Thinking quickly, Dworin said, "It is a celebration of the victory of a group of rebels who revolted against their government and brought about a revolution." Castro's eyes lit up - what could be more relevant to a revolutionary leader than Chanukah? That year Fidel Castro came to the synagogue and celebrated Chanukah with the Jewish community for the first time.

Fidel Castro was not the first person to ask the question, “What is Chanukah?” The question was asked over 1500 years ago by the rabbis of the Talmud. Strange, you think, that they would have to ask the question! It was there for the first time that we find the story about the miracle of the oil that lasted for eight nights. For the rabbis, the answer to the question, “What is Chanukah” was not that it commemorated the victory of a group of rebels who revolted against their government and brought about a revolution. For the rabbis Chanukah was about the power of G-d to act in history, to perform a miracle where the weaker party overcame the stronger one. The rabbis would emphasize that meaning in their choice for the prophetic reading for the Sabbath of Chanukah, which concludes, “Not by might, nor by power, but by My word, sayeth the Lord.” It was G-d’s will, not human agency that was responsible for the victory of the Maccabees.  One should put ones trust not in fellow human beings, but in G-d, to bring about salvation.

By the 19^th century, some Jews rebelled against that very message. These Jews concluded that it was ONLY through human agency that the Jewish people could escape the persecution of the diaspora and return to their ancestral homeland in what was then called “Palestine”.  If they believed in G-d at all – and most did not – they were not about to wait for a miracle to return them to Zion. They found a new meaning in the celebration of Chanukah. They looked to the Maccabees as a model for a Jew who was physically brave, and who bore arms. They found in the story of Chanukah a model of the Jew who, through courage , determination and commitment, was able to overcome the odds and establish independent state. Most important, after years of defeat and persecution, the early Zionists found a model of a Jew who was victorious. To this day, this is the meaning of Chanukah for most Israeli Jews.  As we know they continue to be called upon for sacrifice and service in order to survive in their hostile environment.

For American Jews, Chanukah has yet a different meaning. For us, Chanukah celebrates the freedom to practice ones religion without interference. Chanukah symbolizes our ability in the United States to celebrate a Jewish holiday alongside a Christian holiday as equals, in a society that tolerates and protects the practice of all religions. The Maccabees are models of those who fight against oppression of any kind. They are models of those who carry a light against the darkness of bigotry, of exclusion, of discrimination.  Or, as President Obama recently said, Chanukah, “At its heart …… is about the struggle for justice in the face of overwhelming obstacles.”

Another revolutionary hero is said to have drawn strength and inspiration from the story of Chanukah.  George Washington was encamped with his troops at Valley Forge in the winter of 1776. Everyone is cold. Frostbite is everywhere. A depressed George Washington goes for a walk through the camp, seeking inspiration. He finds a Jewish member of the Continental Army lighting his menorah. The soldier explains Chanukah to Washington, tells of Judah Maccabee and the fight for freedom, and George Washington finds his courage in the process enough to stand up when his boat crosses the Delaware. Later, our first President sends that soldier a silver menorah as a gift of appreciation, along with a letter which says, Judaism has a lot to offer the world. You should be proud to be a Jew!

I suppose you can say that Chanukah is like a Rorschach ink blot -- one can see many things in it. If you are Castro, you can relate to Chanukah as a story of revolution. If you are religiously oriented, you can understand it as the story of a miracle. If you are Israeli, Chanukah is an inspiration to continue the sacrifice in order to live as a free people in your land. If you are an American, Chanukah is the symbol of religious tolerance, pride and acceptance of the Jew into the fabric of American life. The meaning of Chanukah has evolved and changed over the years, to meet new historical circumstances and challenges. It will no doubt continue to take on new meanings in unforeseen ways in each age and in each retelling. 

Shabbat Shalom

Light One Candle -- Parasha Vayeshev

This coming Sunday morning, our congregation will host our fourth annual “Season of Twinning Event”. Members of our Beth Shalom community will join together with members of the local Muslim community to feed the hungry. We are part of an international effort to both feed the hungry and to build relationships between Jews and Muslims. Twinning events are being held in nearly 20 countries around the world – Los Angeles, New York, Paris, London, Sao Paulo Brazil, Malmo, Sweden, Tel Aviv, New York City, Los Angeles and Naperville – to name a few. The theme of this year’s event is “We Refuse to be Enemies”.

As in previous years, Zamir Hassan, the founder of “Muslims Against Hunger” will be joining us to help prepare sandwiches in our CBS kitchen. Zamir grew up in Pakistan.   He openly shares that as a youth he had negative views of the Jewish community although he never knew a Jewish person. When he finally met a Jewish person, he realized that, as he said, “people are people”. As he learned more about Judaism, he realized it had much in common with Islam, including the concept of community service, known as Tikkun Olam in Hebrew and “islah” in Islam.

Today, more than ever, with the rise of both Islamophobia and antisemitism worldwide, programs like these are needed to help break down stereotypes and combat fear. Zamir tells the story of distributing sandwiches along with other volunteers to the homeless in Boston. Upon hearing that he was Muslim, one of the recipient s of the sandwich asked if it was poisoned. Could you imagine how painful that experience must have been to Zamir, who is only trying to help? Zamir recognizes that extremist groups in the Muslim world are giving Islam a bad name. He says, “In each faith group there is always this fringe group which has a fringe agenda. The good people have to be louder.”  Unfortunately, it is far easier to grab headlines through acts of violence than it is through acts of kindness.

In our Torah portion for this week, Jacob sends his son Joseph on an errand. His brothers are tending the flocks at some distance from their home. Jacob instructs Joseph, “Go see the well being of your brothers and the well being of the flock and bring me back word.” This has puzzled commentators because earlier the Torah tells us that Joseph brings “bad reports” about his brothers, and they hate him for it. Joseph is always looking for things to criticize about his brothers’ behaviors – and report them back to his father. Why does Jacob send Joseph with this task of reporting back, when Joseph always exaggerates the negative and downplays the positive?

The commentators surmise that Jacob is trying to teach Joseph a lesson. Joseph is to report back on how “well” his brothers are doing. Instead of digging for gossip, or focusing on their negative traits, Joseph is to report on the positive things they are doing and whether they need help. The lesson for us is that rather than focusing on the unflattering information we can discover about people, we too, should look in to their well-being and whether we can help them.

Jacob is teaching Joseph that by understanding his brothers’ needs he might overcome his tendency to be overly critical of them. By being more empathic toward his brothers, Joseph might come to understand how his own behavior has contributed to the strain in their relationship. This is certainly a lesson for us as well in our interpersonal relationships. Instead of focusing upon what we don’t like about others, we should search out their positive qualities and try better to understand their needs and how we can help. We undoubtedly would hope that’s how others will treat us.

This also applies to our community’s relationship to the Muslim community. The news brings us “bad reports” about our Muslim brothers and sisters almost on a daily basis.  The reprehensible actions of a few tarnish the reputation of the many. It seems as if the evil is threatening to engulf the innocent as well as the guilty. Yet, what can we, as individuals, do to stop that process from occurring?

The story is told of a group of disciples of a Hassidic rabbi who were troubled by the prevalence of evil in the world. They requested the rabbi instruct them on how to drive out the forces of darkness. The Rebbe suggested that they take a broom and try sweeping the darkness out of the cellar. They did as their Rebbe said, but reported that the darkness remained. The Rebbe advised them to get a stick and try beating the darkness away. They did as the Rebbe said, but reported that the darkness was still there. The Rebbe then said to them, “My students, let each of you meet the challenge of darkness by lighting a candle!” The disciples descended to the cellar and each lit a candle. Behold, the darkness was dispelled.

There are those in our world who want to plunge us into darkness. We need to resist. We need to light candles to drive out the darkness. Through reaching out to the Muslim community, and through the Muslim community reaching out to us, we work on establishing a positive relationship with one another. Instead of relying on the “bad reports” that we hear about one another, we need to seek out those who are lighting candles against the darkness in both communities.  Our mutual participation in programs such as The” Season of Twinning” lights a candle against the darkness that threatens us and the world.

Let each of us meet the challenge of darkness by lighting a candle!

Shabbat Shalom

Terror in Paris and Jerusalem

There is a well-known story about the Israeli diplomat who was giving a news conference. A reporter shouts to him, “Mr. Ambassador-in a word, how are things”. “In a word?” he responds, “Good!”  Another reporter says to him, “Can you give us a bit more? -- How about two words?” “In two words”, he says, “Well in two words --- not good!”

As we all know by now, this has been a “not good” couple of weeks for the world. First there was the downing of a Russian plane in the Sinai, killing all 224 people aboard. Confirmed as a terrorist act, ISIS later claimed “credit” for the bombing. Then a week ago today Islamic terrorists attacked multiple sites in Paris, claiming as of today 130 lives. ISIS also claimed responsibility for this series of attacks in the City of Lights. Israel has been dealing with its own spate of terrorist attacks in recent months.  In the past six weeks, 19 people have been killed and 172 wounded -- 20 of them seriously.
 On the face of it this terror campaign appears to be spontaneous, but behind this violence there is incitement by the Palestinian leadership. Following the attempted assassination of a radical rabbi who advocated Jewish governance of the Mount, Israel briefly closed access to the site. Mahmood Abbas, President of the Palestinian Authority, called this action a “declaration of war”.  The spreading of false rumors by Palestinian government officials and the Palestinian media charging that Israel plans to change the status quo at the Temple Mount have inflamed people. Knife wielding murderers are praised as “heroes” by Palestinian authorities and Israelis are blamed for the violence.

Ironically, just this week France introduced a draft text to the United Nations proposing the stationing of international observers on the Temple Mount “to identify possible violations of the status quo”.  Apparently, despite Israeli assurances to the contrary, the French Government believes the Palestinian claims that the Israeli government has in fact changed the status quo, or intends to do so. Here we have a case of rewarding the inciters and blaming the victims.

In July of 2014, with the war with Gaza raging, Kenneth Roth, the Executive Director of Human Rights sent out a tweet. In doing so, he too confused the victims with the perpetrators. He tweeted, “Germans rally against anti-Semitism that flared in Europe in response to Israel’s conduct in Gaza war.’” In an article in the Atlantic Magazine Jeffery Goldberg took issue with that statement. “Anti-Semitism in Europe did not flare ‘in response to Israel’s conduct in Gaza’ or anywhere else…Jews were victims of hate crimes in Europe before the latest round of fighting in the Middle East. The massacre of Jewish children at a school in Toulouse, France and the fatal attack on the Jewish museum in Brussels are two examples…Anti-Semitic violence and invective are not responses to events in the Middle East…This is for the simple reason that Jews do not cause anti-Semitism. It is a universal and immutable rule that targets of prejudice are not the cause of prejudice…Black people do not cause racism, nor gay people homophobia…it is a manifestation of irrational hatred. Its proponents justify their anti-Semitism by pointing to the behavior of their targets, but ,” concludes Golberg, “This does not mean that major figures in the world of human rights advocacy should accept these pathetic excuses as legitimate.”

David Harris of the American Jewish Committee writes that the terror against France and against Israel has at least one thing in common.  The terrorists, who attacked Paris last week, and last January, detest Western values – and Paris --- with its museums, restaurants, and rich cultural and intellectual life -- is a symbol of that. It is the same reason Al Qaida chose the World Trade Center to attack twice – once in 1994 and once in 2001. The Twin Towers at the World Trade Center were symbols of the power and wealth of the United States. ISIS detests Western democracy, with its openness, its tolerance, its freedom and its secularism. With Israel it is much the same. At its root, Radical Islam does not hate Israel because of how Israelis treat the Palestinians – they hate Israel because Israel exists. They are not interested in sharing the land --they are interested in ruling the land. Just as Paris is a symbol of Western civilization, so is Israel. It is intolerable for Radical Islam to see an outpost of Western civilization in the Middle East.

Rabbi Mitchell Wohlberg points to this week’s Torah portion as an example of how victims often get blamed.  He notes that although Jacob behaves honestly with his Uncle Lavan, Lavan repeatedly cheats and deceives him. Jacob has worked seven years for Lavan in order to marry Rachel, yet Lavan substitutes the older daughter Leah for her on the wedding night. When Jacob complains, Lavan tells him that the custom of the land is to marry the older off before the younger. Like Lavan could not have told him this up front?  As Rabbi Wohlberg writes, “And yet, no less than three times, Lavan accuses Yaakov of theft: “You have stolen my heart, you have stolen from me and you have stolen my goods.”  Lavan tells Yaakov, “You have taken my daughters captive, you have denied my children and grandchildren and you have deprived me of the opportunity to send you off with gladness and mirth.”  Of course, Yaakov had never done any of this.  It was Lavan who had done all this to Yaakov.  It was Lavan who had switched Rochail for Leah … it was Lavan who deprived Yaakov of his fair wages … it was Lavan who lied, cheated and swindled Yaakov.  But it was Lavan who managed to blame it all on the victim.”

These are scary and confusing times, indeed.  We must be clear in our thinking and resolute in our actions. We must remember that the thousands and thousands of Syrian refugees are not the perpetrators of violence; they are the victims of violence. French involvement in the war against ISIS does not make them the perpetrators of violence.  They are part of a force fighting against those who want to take hard won freedoms away. We must continue to affirm and insist upon and support Israel’s right to exist as a state.  Israel is not perpetrating a wrong on the Palestinians by being there. Israel is exercising a right to return as a free people to the ancestral lands of the Jewish people. In turn, it is Israel and her people that are being victimized by a terror campaign.  Israel must be allowed defend herself vigorously against those who seek to destroy her. No less than the future of the Jewish people depends on that.

Shabbat Shalom

For Veterans Day : A Forgotten Story

This evening, in honor of Veterans Day which we observed last Wednesday, I am going to tell you a little known and long forgotten story of courage. The courage that I am going to tell you about was not ONLY about courage on the battlefield.  It is also about the courage to overcome bigotry and discrimination. It is about the courage to hold a vision of America as a country where all people, no matter their race, religion or country of origin, could live in freedom and equality. It is a vision of the United States as a country free of prejudice, hatred, and discrimination. It is a vision of America that truly honors the men and women of our armed forces who serve our country so bravely.

Of all of the battles in United States history, the battle for Iwo Jima during World War ll is one of the most famous. Iwo Jima is a volcanic island only 650 miles from Tokyo. It lay midway between Japan and the American bomber bases in the Marianas, an archipelago in the western North Pacific. It was crucial for Japan to maintain control of Iwo Jima to prevent a United States invasion of mainland Japan. It was equally important for US forces to evict the Japanese from this island fortress and use its air fields as staging grounds for bombing Japan.

Twenty two thousand Japanese soldiers defended Iwo Jima. These soldiers were burrowed in underground fortresses. There were no front lines in Iwo Jima. American soldiers fought above ground, and Japanese soldiers fought from underneath them. American soldiers rarely caught a glimpse of the men they were fighting. One hundred and ten thousand Marines, among them approximately 1500 Jewish marines, were transported on 880 ships to invade the island.

The Japanese were given the order to fight to the death. There was to be no surrender. In 36 days of fighting, 6,825 Americans were killed and 19,000 wounded. Virtually all 22,000 Japanese soldiers were killed.

When the fighting was over, Division Chaplain Warren Cuthriell, a Protestant minister, asked Rabbi Roland Gittelsohn, a Marine chaplain, to deliver a memorial sermon at a joint religious ceremony dedicating the Marine cemetery. Rabbi Gittelsohn had been in the thick of the fighting, ministering to Marines of all faiths during the battle. He was awarded three combat ribbons for his service under fire. Yet, the majority of Protestant chaplains objected to Rabbi Gittelsohn’s preaching over predominantly Christian graves. Catholic chaplains opposed any form of combined worship, basing their opposition on Church doctrine.

To his credit, Chaplain Cuthriell refused to change his order, but Rabbi Gittelsohn convinced him that it would be better to have three separate services. Seventy soldiers attended Rabbi Gittlesohn’s service, where he delivered the sermon that he had originally prepared for the joint worship. The following is an excerpt from that sermon:

Here lie men who loved America because their ancestors’ generations ago helped in her founding, and other men who loved her with equal passion because they themselves or their own fathers escaped from oppression to her blessed shores.  Here lie officers and men, Negroes and whites, rich men and poor . . . together.  Here are Protestants, Catholics, and Jews together.  Here no man prefers another because of his faith or despises him because of his color.  Here there are no quotas of how many from each group are admitted or allowed.  Among these men, there is no discrimination. No prejudices.  No hatred. Theirs is the highest and purest democracy . . .

Whosoever of us lifts his hand in hate against a brother, or who thinks himself superior to those who happen to be in the minority, makes of this ceremony and the bloody sacrifice it commemorates, an empty, hollow mockery.  To this, then, as our solemn duty, sacred duty, do we the living now dedicate ourselves:  to the right of Protestants, Catholics, and Jews, of white men and Negroes alike, to enjoy the democracy for which all of them have here paid the price . . .

We here solemnly swear that this shall not be in vain.  Out of this and from the suffering and sorrow of those who mourn this will come, we promise, the birth of a new freedom for the sons of men everywhere. “

Although few people heard the sermon that day, a number of Christian chaplains did attend in protest of the cancellation of the joint worship.  A Protestant chaplain who heard Rabbi Gittlelsohn borrowed a copy of the sermon. He made more copies and circulated them among thousands of soldiers. Some sent it home in letters to their family. The story was picked up by Armed Forces Radio and broadcast throughout the world. Parts of the sermon were published in Time Magazine. Shortly before his death in 1995, Rabbi Gittelsohn read from the sermon at the 50^th anniversary of the dedication of the Iwo Jima Memorial in Washington DC. He said, “I have often wondered if anyone would ever have heard of my Iwo Jima sermon if not for the bigoted attempt to ban it.”  

 Each year on Veterans Day, November 11^th, we honor living veterans and the memory of veterans past, especially those we know and love.

We acknowledge the horrific risk they willingly took and the appalling sacrifices they made for the sake of others, not least ourselves.

We also honor the millions of veterans who never saw combat but who confronted its real possibility in their lives, and the 1.2 million Americans now on active duty -- including more than 10,000 Jews serving in our armed forces today.

We remember the families and loved ones, worried at home while their veterans are off at war. 

Let us never forget the sacrifices made by our men and women in the armed forces, past and present, who serve so that we may live in freedom.

To that let us say to that: AMEN!

The Immigrant, the Refugee and the Jewish Experience

The Syrian Civil war has been called “the worst humanitarian disaster of our time.”  It has been estimated that there are 7.6 million Syrians that have left their homes for other parts of Syria, and 4 million Syrians who have fled to other countries -- two million to Turkey, a quarter million to Iraq, a million to Lebanon, three-quarters of a million to Jordan, and 150,000 to Egypt. As we have heard and read in news reports, Syrians, Afghanis and Africans fleeing from their war torn country have sought refuge in Europe. This year alone 700,000 people have crossed the Mediterranean into Europe. Some European countries have threatened to close their borders, thus blocking these refuges from reaching a safe haven.

Last week I attended a study session with Rabbi   Saul Berman, a Modern Orthodox Rabbi and an attorney.  Rabbi Berman is an Associate Professor of Jewish Studies at Yeshivah University and an Adjuct Professor of Law at Columbia University. The topic of his talk to The JUF Rabbinic Action Committee was on the issue of immigrants and refugees. He reminded us that from the very beginnings of the Jewish people in Mesopotamia, we have been both immigrants and refugees. As is says in Psalms:

                                  

You were very few in number/ little more than strangers in the land/ Wandering from nation to nation/from kingdom to kingdom.

In the Book of Genesis, the Torah vividly portrays the vulnerabilities and compromises that the immigrant and/or refugee must make to his or her surroundings. Abraham and Sarah immigrate to the Land of Canaan from the city of Haran in Mesopotamia.  In Canaan they will found a new religion, Judaism.  But they and their family are strangers in a strange land.

Pharaoh Takes Sarah

The absence of legal standing of the refugee is brought home to us when Abraham and Sarah descend to Egypt.  They are fleeing famine in the Land of Canaan. As they enter Egypt, Abraham resorts to lying in order to assure his survival and that of his wife. “When we are interviewed by the immigration authorities at the Egyptian border,” he tells Sarah, his wife, “and they ask you what our relationship is, tell them you are my sister.” Abraham feels compelled to do this because he knows that as a refugee, he has no rights in Egypt. He has no legal protection, no recourse to the courts if he is harmed. The Egyptians can do with him what they want, and he fears they will kill him and take Sarah by force if they know they are married. So he lies on his immigration application. Sure enough, the Egyptians do take Sarah, thinking she is indeed Abraham’s sister. Apparently Abraham can do nothing about this – he is, after all, a foreigner, a “griener” in Yiddish. He is at the mercy of his host country. Or, as he later explains, after again lying to authorities, “I did not know that there was a respect for the rule of law in this country.”

This is the psychological and physical reality of all refugees, and it is repeated over and over in the lives of Abraham, of Isaac, of Jacob, of Joseph and of his brothers. As they travel to foreign lands, they are deceived, they are taken advantage of, they are exploited, they are imprisoned unjustly, they are the subject of envy, xenophobia, and prejudice. They are vulnerable, unprotected, and weak. Although initially welcomed in Egypt by Pharaoh, the Jewish people will suffer the humiliation of being enslaved because they are suspected of being disloyal citizens of Egypt. Never fully accepted by the Egyptians as full citizens, their “outsider” status eventually leads to envy, suspicion, dispossession and slavery.

I can imagine my grandparent seeing the Statue
of Liberty as they approached New York

Such is the experience of the Jewish people in the Bible, and such are the experiences of all refugees and immigrants to this present day. Most of us here this evening are the children or grandchildren or great-grandchildren of people who sought refuge on these shores. All four of my grandparents were born in Europe and came to the United States as immigrants in their late teens in the beginning of the 20^th century. Like the millions of Jews who came at that time, they were both immigrants and refugees. Immigrants -- in that they were voluntarily seeking to settle permanently in a new country. Refugees – in that they were escaping war and poverty and persecution that was their lot in life in Europe. They were both fleeing danger and seeking a safe haven where they would have an opportunity to earn a living and raise their families – much like the immigrants and refugees today from Syria, Afghanistan and Africa in Europe, and from Mexico and Central America in the United States.

Perhaps the Jewish experience of immigration is why the Torah repeatedly commands -- nineteen times in all – that we should treat the immigrant in our midst with fairness and with compassion.  We know – we have been there. Here is just one example from the Torah, Leviticus 19 verse 34:

“The stranger who sojourns with you shall be as a native among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. I am the Lord Your G-d.”

It is interesting that this particular verse follows the verse commanding us to rise before the aged and show deference to the old. The medieval commentator Ibn Ezra notes that this is no coincidence. Just as the elderly citizen may have little strength due to illness or infirmity, so the immigrant is relatively powerless compared to the native born citizen.  The immigrant, after all, dwells in the land only because the citizen allows it. Both the elderly and the immigrant need special consideration due to their vulnerable position in society.

To say the least, how to deal with waves of refugees fleeing from war and violence is an extremely complex issue. When Menachim Begin was elected prime minister of Israel in 1977, his first official act was to allow 66 Vietnamese boat people, who had been denied refuge in Asia, a haven in Israel. In doing so he compared their situation to the plight of Jews escaping Europe during World War ll. In all, Israel welcomed 360 Vietnamese refugees between 1977 and 1979, granting them citizenship, full rights and government subsidized apartments. Today, Prime Minister Netanyahu rejects the idea of admitting any Syrian refugees to Israel.  Although opposition leader Isaac Herzog says that Israel “cannot remain indifferent” to Syrian refugees and others advocate admitting up to 10,000 Syrian refugees to Israel, the Prime Minister worries that opening the gates to Syrian refugees threatens the Jewish character of the state. He also worries that Israel will be admitting people who are hostile to the very idea of a Jewish State in the area. On top of this, Israel continues to grapple with the tens of thousands of refugees from Eritrea and Sudan who have sought asylum in Israel by crossing from Egypt. Once again, the fear is that granting them permanent asylum will threaten the Jewish majority in the State in future years and the Jewish people will lose control of their own destiny.

I don’t know what the answer is. I am sympathetic to the positions of both sides of the issue. What I am  prepared to say  is that at the present time, we Jews, wherever we live, have a particular responsibility to bring the experience, teachings and values of our people to bear on how we think about, and how we treat the immigrant and the refugee.

Shabbat Shalom

A Prayer of Unity with the People of Israel

Thank you to Barbara Bernstein for sending me this prayer composed by Rabbi David Wolpe of Sinai Temple in Los Angeles, California

El Maleh Rachamim -- Compassionate God,
We pray not to wipe out haters but to banish hatred.
Not to destroy sinners but to lessen sin.
Our prayers are not for a perfect world but a better one
Where parents are not bereaved by the savagery of sudden attacks
Or children orphaned by blades glinting in a noonday sun.
Help us dear God, to have the courage to remain strong, to stand fast.
Spread your light on the dark hearts of the slayers
And your comfort to the bereaved hearts of families of the slain.
Let calm return Your city Jerusalem, and to Israel, Your blessed land.
We grieve with those wounded in body and spirit,
Pray for the fortitude of our sisters and brothers,
And ask you to awaken the world to our struggle and help us bring peace.

Thoughts on the Current Violence in Israel

As we are today witnessing a new round of violence in Israel, it is important to remember that there are people of goodwill on both sides who are working toward peace and a shared vision of the future of the State of Israel. On our congregational trip last May to Israel, we visited the Center for a Shared Society at Givat Haviva, located on a kibbutz near the Green Line that demarcates Israel proper from the West Bank. There we met with Lidia Aisenberg, who talked to us about the mission and strategies of the organization and guided us on a tour of Barta’a, an Arab village about a five minute drive off route 65, one of the busiest roads in Israel.

A few days ago Lydia sent me a declaration signed by Jewish and Arab mayors and regional authorities calling for a secure and shared life in Israel. The banner above the declaration said, “Jews and Arabs won’t give up on a Shared Society”. Here is a summary of the five points of the declaration:

1.       The statement affirms that the State of Israel is based on the principle of equality, and has been a shared home for both Jews and Arabs since its inception.

2.      It calls  upon all the citizens of Israel, and residents in Wadi Ara and the Triangle in particular, to maintain an attitude of respect and avoid any harm to one another. It condemns any attack on body, soul, or property, as well as any expression of physical or verbal abuse.

3.       It appeals to the leaders of both peoples to refrain from incitement and the ferment of emotions. “Our task at this time is to inspire calm and ensure public safety.” It appeals to religious leaders, intellectuals, educators and teachers to lead people in dialogue that will help adults and children to deal with the complex situation in a way that will not lead to manifestations of racism, revenge, injury, or threats to the other.

4.      It urges the Israeli government to pursue a political solution that will enable all people in Israel to live in security and peace.

5.       It recognizes the great sensitivity of the Temple Mount / Al Aqsa Mosque for both Jews and Muslims. Asks the Israeli government, the government of Jordan and the Palestinian Authority to manage the crisis responsibly and to  preserve the status quo on the Mount.

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 The declaration concludes, “During this time of crisis we will continue to maintain good relations and promise to remain faithful and committed to our partnership, which is based on mutual responsibility and equality between Jews and Arabs in the region and in the country.”

For more information on Givat Haviva go to http://www.givathaviva.org/

Erev Rosh Hashana 5776

Listening to our Prayers

In his 2002 debut novel, Everything Is Illuminated, Jonathan Safran Foer introduces us to the mythical village of Trachimbrod, Ukraine, circa 1791. The village has 300 citizens, all of them Jewish. This shtetl is divided into a Jewish Quarter and a Human Three Quarters. In the Jewish Quarter, everything of a sacred nature goes on – religious studies, kosher butchering, bargaining – and in the Human Three Quarters all secular activities take place. Dividing the two quarters is the synagogue. There are two Torahs in the ark, placed strategically so that one Torah sits in each zone.  When the men of this synagogue pray, they have a strange custom.  They clip a rope to their belts and hoist themselves via a pulley to the ceiling. This is so they can be, literally, closer to G-d.

There is another group in the village that never attends the synagogue. This group meets every week in different people’s homes. They have no Rabbi, they sit on pillows in a circle, and engage in group led discussions. Mostly they talk about their recurrent dreams, which they then record in a book.

When the balance of Jewish to secular changed in the village, it was the custom of the people to lift the synagogue and move it, a little to the right of to the left, to reflect the new ratio of Jewish to secular. Eventually the synagogue was put on wheels, making the ever changing negotiations between religious and secular less of a schlepp.

Friends, when I read this description of the mythical Trachimbrod community, I could not help but think of our own Congregation Beth Shalom community.  There is one group who do not come to services because the Rabbi talks about G-d too much, and our prayer book is filled with images of the Divine. There is another group who do not attend services because services are not spiritual enough, they do not sustain your soul. I am hesitant to reveal to these two groups that the subject of my talk tonight is prayer. I am concerned about how you will receive it. For those who do not come to services because the Rabbi talks about G-d too much – I am afraid you will find my sermon entirely irrelevant to your lives. For those who do not attend services because services are not spiritual enough – I am afraid you will not find my sermon deep or spiritually satisfying.

You must be asking yourselves by now – if the rabbi thought that half of us would be either disinterested or disappointed in what he has to say, why did he choose this subject to begin with? Does our rabbi have sadomasochistic tendencies? The reason I choose to speak about prayer this sacred eve is this: We come to synagogue this evening for different reasons. For some, it is a chance to see and to be seen. Some come in solidarity and in identification with our Jewish community. Some come out of curiosity as to what the Rabbi will say. Some come to hear the beautiful music of our Cantor and choir. Some come because of associations the High Holidays have with parents and grandparents, with warm childhood memories. Some come because their parents want them to come.  Some come because their husbands or wives want them to come. Some come because their friends and family are here. Some can’t figure out why they come, but they come anyway.  No matter what our particular reasons are for being here tonight, we all expect to spend some time in prayer. Prayer may not be the primary reason we come, but it is the primary activity we will engage in over the course of the next two weeks! That is why I gave myself the challenging task of speaking about prayer.

There are two functions that prayer ought to serve – to comfort us and to challenge us. I want to explore those two aspects of prayer this evening. Prayer aims to comfort us.  Our prayers reassure us that however chaotic the world may seem or our lives may be, there is a loving G-d who cares about us, who watches over us, who is with us in times of suffering.  As you know, the theme of this season is teshuvah – return.  Our prayers inform us that however far we have strayed, there is a way back. No matter how much we have disappointed ourselves or others, no matter how far we have departed from our ideals, in this holiday season our prayers teach us that we can begin anew, we can leave old baggage behind- that all can, and will, be forgiven if we are honest with ourselves and with others. We can make atonement --- at -one- ment – to become at one again with G-d, at one with our friends and family, at one with ourselves. If we would listen to our prayers, instead of merely recite them we might find that they express in words what we cannot. The prayers may be ancient – the human struggles they convey are not.  If we would listen to our prayers, instead of merely recite them, we may find that we are not the first to fall in love, the first to experience the pain of loss; we are not the first to be stricken by the uncertainty of illness, the first to worry about how we will put food on the table, the first to experience betrayal. If we would listen to our prayers, instead of merely recite them, we will learn that we are not the first to have misgivings of the past, or apprehensions about the future; that we are not the first to feel the pain of loneliness, or the panic of abandonment – if we would only listen to our prayers, and not merely recite them.

Prayer should challenge us as well.  We must not only examine our past deeds.  We ought to challenge ourselves with questions about our present and about our future. Who am I? Am I living according to the highest ideals of the Jewish people? Where am I in this stage of my life?  Am I headed in the right direction?  As we challenge ourselves, we must remain aware that those around us are all facing challenges of different kinds. All of us are imperfect beings, all are struggling to be better parents, to be better spouses, to be better friends, to be better children, to be more honest and more loving  kinder and more generous. Ultimately, we must challenge ourselves to ask, “How can standing in the presence of G-d this High Holiday season help me to address some of these issues?”

Rabbi Zalman Schacter-Shlomi , z”l  once said that prayer is less like a vending machine – you put something in and you get something out – and more like a flight path – you are transported into another place.  But let’s face it – sometimes we feel like we are grounded for hours when we pray, as if by bad weather or mechanical difficulties. All we want to do is get off of the plane.

Should that happen, take comfort in the story of Rabbi Nachum of Chernobyl , who was once reciting his High Holiday prayers with great fervor. His grandson, standing near him, felt a sinking feeling. Everyone seemed to be praying with great concentration, but it took all the strength that he had to be able to focus on even a single word.  Afterward, the grandson approached his grandfather, with much trepidation, aware that he had barely been able to make it through the service.  Would his grandfather, the great Tsaddik, be angry with him? Reb Nachum turned to him and said, “My son, how your prayer took heaven by storm today! It lifted up all those prayers that could not come through the gates!

Sometimes we too feel like complete failures at prayer. We feel like we have no talent for it. Then we look around, see others who appear to know exactly what they are doing, and conclude that maybe next year our time would be better spent on some other endeavor. The story of Reb Nachum is telling us that if we only end up praying that we would be able to pray, if we wish to cry but find our tears lacking, if we hope that we will ascend on the wings of our prayers but find that we cannot even get off the ground -- then we should know that this too is a high form of prayer.

There. Your Rabbi is done. I have said my piece and we have all survived….. as far as I can determine.  I will ask you one more thing. When you are talking with your friends and your family tonight or tomorrow morning, and they ask you about the Rabbi’s sermon – if it spoke to you, tell them you liked it. By all means, tell them it was a good sermon! But if you are a person who doesn’t come to services because the Rabbi talks about G-d too much; or if you are a person who doesn’t come to services because services are not spiritual enough; well, then I would think this was a difficult sermon to hear. So if someone asks you about the Rabbi’s sermon, think of the response of Pope Francis when asked about homosexual priests.  As you may recall, the Pope responded to that question, “If someone is gay and he searches for the Lord and has good will, who am I to judge?” Likewise, if someone asks you about tonight’s sermon, please consider saying – “The rabbi’s sermon? – Who am I to judge?”

Shanah Tovah

Rosh Hashanah Day 1 5776

The Courage to Dream

“If you will it, it is not a dream”.

This is perhaps the most famous Jewish quotation of the 20^th century. It was written by Theodore Herzl, Jewish visionary and founder of modern political Zionism. He was referring of course, to the ages long dream of the Jewish people that they would be one day restored to their ancestral land, the Land of Israel. It was a dream that was kept alive by religious Jews for two thousand years. The dream of return to Zion is a central theme in our prayers, the recitation of which three times a day helped keep this dream alive. Herzl was a secular Jew, and he took up the dream in a way never envisioned by his more traditional forbears. The return to Zion would be a political movement, born of political necessity, employing the tools of statecraft to achieve its ends. The dream remained intact – only the methods of achieving it had changed. According to Herzl, it would not be G-d who redeemed the Jewish people –the Jewish people would redeem themselves.

We are a religion of dreamers. In his book, The Gifts of the Jews, Thomas Cahill describes ancient Sumerian society, out of which Abraham and Sarah emerged, as one “in which life is seen……..as part of an endless cycle of birth and death: time perceived as a wheel, spinning ceaselessly, never altering its course….”  These were societies in which fatalism was the operant philosophy and where the idea of human advancement was absent.  War, disease, despotic government all had to be endured because this was the Will of the gods and nothing would ever change. Cahill writes that the Jewish people brought to the world “a new vision of men and women with unique destinies – a vision”, he writes, “that thousands of years later will inspire the Declaration of Independence and our hopeful belief in progress and the sense that tomorrow could be better than today.”

That dream of progress, that dream that “things don’t always have to be the way they are”, is embodied in the Jewish idea of tikun ha-olam, our obligation to change the world for the better. It is embodied in our notion of Messianic times, a time where the entire world will be redeemed. The prophet Micah best articulated that dream when he wrote, “And they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift up sword against nation, nor shall they learn war anymore. But every person shall sit under their grapevine or fig tree with no one to disturb them.” Rabbi Harold Kushner recently called this dream of progress the theology of “not yet”.  The theology of “not yet” is the refusal to see what is wrong with the world as reflecting God’s will and the recognition that human action is required to do something about it.  In other words, it is not G-d’s will that hundreds of thousands of people be killed in war and millions displaced and seeking refuge, as we have recently witnessed. It is not G-d’s will that today a child dies every minute from malaria in sub-Saharan Africa. It is not G-d’s will that there are almost 15 million children living in Africa who have been orphaned due to AIDS. G-d doesn’t want that. G-d doesn’t desire that. G-d wants us to use our G-d given talents and intelligence to do something about that, though.

We are a religion of dreamers. It got me to thinking – does G-d dream?  I think so. G-d dreams of a world that is founded on justice and on righteousness, a world where the dignity and value of every person is upheld.  G-d then shared that dream with a nation at a mountain called Sinai. The Jewish people bought into that dream. That is called the covenant.  From that time on we would take up the dream, and work toward making the world a place where the painful gap between the world as it is and the world as it should be could be narrowed.  G-d and the Jewish people shared the dream that through human action humanity could work its way back, gradually, to live once again in peace and tranquility of the Garden of Eden.

Rosh Hashannah, the birthday of the world, would seem an appropriate time to review our dreams and ask, “How are we doing?” But I am not going to give a report card for world progress.  We have other kinds of dreams as well -- the dreams we have for ourselves and for our children. It is those dreams I would like to focus on today. The humorist Erma Bombeck once wrote, “There are people who put their dreams in a little box and say, ‘Yes, I’ve got dreams, of course, I’ve got dreams’. Then they put the box away and bring it out once in a while to look at it, and yet, they’re still there. These are great dreams, but they never even get out of the box.”

This past year, I was recruiting people for our congregational trip to Israel. I approached a man I knew casually, who is not a member of our congregation, but who I know is Jewish. I asked him if he might be interested in traveling with us to Israel. “Rabbi,” he said, “I am so glad you asked. It has been a life-long dream of mine to visit Israel.” I was encouraged.  It was beginning to sound as if he was going to sign up for the trip. Then he added, “But I just can’t do it this year. You see, I can’t get away right now. Let me know when you take another trip.”

I was disappointed, but I tried not to show it. But I will tell you what I was thinking: “This man is no youngster. He is 75 years old if he is a day. He’s retired. He has the money. How many chances does he think he is going to get to fulfill this dream of a lifetime? What in the world is he waiting for? “

His response reminds me of a story I read recently. In the 1960s, President Eisenhower received the gift of a rare, white tiger named Mohini. For years, Mohini lived in the Washington Zoo and spent her days pacing back and forth in a 12-by-12 foot cage. Finally the zoo decided to build her a larger enclosure so Mohini could run, climb and explore. But when Mohini arrived at her new home, she didn’t rush out, eagerly to her new habitat. Rather, she marked off a 12-by-12 foot square for herself by the fence, and paced there until her death. Mohini was literally trapped in a box of her own making never enjoying the new opportunities available to her.

We are all a little bit like Mohini.  Just like her we create imaginary boundaries that we feel we cannot cross, even when the opportunity presents itself to do so. We set arbitrary limits upon ourselves.  In Biblical times, the call of the Shofar marked the beginning of the Jubilee Year, when all slaves were freed. The call of the shofar, then, should serve as a call to us to end our internal imprisonment, to break the fetters of our self-imposed chains, to move us out of our comfort zone, to call us to a life of greater freedom and renewed passion.

Unfortunately, we often underestimate ourselves and our capabilities. We build our own internal cages, and become fearful about what lies outside of it. There was once an 18th rabbi named Chaim ben Yitzchak of Volozhin who made that mistake. When he was young, he was not an ambitious student, and in fact one day told his parents he no longer wanted to study but would rather go to trade school and learn to be a shoe maker. He announced his decision to his parents who reluctantly acquiesced.

That night, the young man had a dream. In it he saw an angel holding a stack of beautiful books.  “Whose books are those?” he asked the angel. “They are yours,” was the answer, “if you have the courage to write them.” This dream changed the young man’s life, and Rabbi Chaim of Volozhin was on his way to discovering the scholar that he was meant to become.

One of the metaphors of these High Holidays is that G-d has a book before Him where he inscribes our fate for the coming year. It is true that some of what happens to us in the coming year and in the remaining years of our lives is in G-d’s hands. But it is also true that, to a great extent, we write the story of our own lives.  A medieval rabbi said: “Days are scrolls: write on them what you want to be remembered.” Our tradition teaches that we have the power to change our lives, to pursue our dreams, to control our own destinies.

Think of the next year as a book filled with blank pages. How do you want to fill them in? What do you want the book to say next year, when you read it?

 ---- I finally learned to read Hebrew this year.

----- This past year I made an effort to spend more time with my wife and children. It has meant setting some limits on my work, but it has really been worth it.

---   Last year I volunteered at the homeless shelter. It has opened my eyes to a world I barely knew existed.

What will be written on YOUR pages?

One thing we can continue to be proud of as Jews – despite our many setbacks, we have not been afraid to dream. We have not been afraid to articulate our dreams, to re-affirm them, even in the face of failure and disappointment. To be a Jew is to never lose hope, to always hold on to the dream. To be a Jew means to share a dream, if one dares say, with G-d, of a world where every human being is valued and the Divine presence is unmistakable. We transmit our dreams to our children, and pray that they will cherish them, even as one generation gives way to the next, seeing our dreams of a perfected world not yet realized. The Talmudic sage, Rabbi Tarfon says, “It is not upon you to complete the task, but you are not free to desist from it.” There is much work to be done in our lives, and in our world -- many obstacles to overcome, many challenges to be met. We must boldly meet all these challenges with courage and with intelligence and with faith.

As it is with the dreams of the Jewish people, so it is with our own, personal dreams. Rosh Hashanah is the ideal time of year to take those dreams out of their box, examine them, put them on the line, and resolve to work toward fulfilling them in the years to come.  Progress may be slow, and success elusive. But as American philosopher Henry David Thoreau once wrote, “If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours …..if you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now, put the foundations under them.”

To that we may all say, AMEN!