Are You Listening G-d?

In her book Traveling Mercies, Some Thoughts on Faith, American novelist Anne Lamott writes:

I was remembering an old story the other day about a man getting drunk at a bar in Alaska.  He’s telling the bartender how he recently lost whatever faith he’d had after his twin-engine plane crashed in the tundra.

“Yeah,” he says bitterly.  “I lay there in the wreckage, hour after hour, nearly frozen to death, crying out for God to save me, praying for help with every ounce of my being, but he didn’t raise a finger to help.  So I’m done with that whole charade.”

“But,” said the bartender, squinting an eye to him, “you’re here.  You were saved.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” says the man.  “Because finally some dang Eskimo came along . . .”

This story made me wonder what Joseph said as he lay at the bottom of that pit, awaiting what his brothers would do with him. Did he scream at his brothers to release him? Did he curse his brothers for putting him there? Did he pray to G-d for help? Curiously, the Torah is silent about Joseph as he stood in the pit, not knowing what his fate would be. He must have been terrified.  One would think this would have been the perfect situation for G-d to speak to Joseph and to allay his fears. This would have been the perfect time for G-d to whisper to Joseph that G-d was with him. After all, did not G-d speak to Abraham, his great-grandfather, when Abraham set off on the dangerous journey from his native land to the Land of Canaan? G-d says to Abraham, “I will make of you a great nation…. I will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you.” Did G-d not speak to Isaac, Joseph’s grandfather, when famine came to the Land of Canaan? “Stay in the Land which I point out to you,” G-d says to Isaac, “and do not descend to Egypt…… I will be with you and bless you…..I will make your descendants as numerous as the stars of heaven.” Did not G-d speak to Jacob, Joseph’s father, when he fled from his home to an uncertain future? G-d says to Jacob, “Remember I am with you: I will protect you wherever you go and will be you back to this land.” If ever there was a person who could use those words, it is Joseph in the pit. But…..nothing. G-d neither comforts him, nor speaks to him. In Joseph’s anguish, G-d offers neither solace or encouragement. What does Joseph feel at that time? Does he feel like the man in the story – that he is through with the whole charade of religion, because G-d doesn’t seem to lift a finger to help?

As we know, Joseph is sold into slavery and is bought by a man named Potiphar. Potiphar takes a liking to Joseph and puts him in charge of his household. Joseph is a handsome young man, and Potiphar’s wife also takes a liking to Joseph. But Joseph resists her advances. He explains to her, “My master places all that he owns in my hands. He has withheld nothing from me, except you, for you are his wife. How could I then do this wicked thing?” And here we get an insight into Joseph’s character. Joseph could have stopped at “How could I then do this wicked thing”, but he adds, “and sin before G-d.” Now we understand, for the first time, that although G-d was silent when Joseph needed G-d most, Joseph has not abandoned his faith in G-d.

Potiphar’s wife, however, accuses Joseph of trying to seduce her, and he is imprisoned. One would think that by now, Joseph’s faith in G-d would be shaken. After all, his life has been threatened by his own brothers, he has been sold into slavery, unfairly accused of violating his master’s trust in him, and, as a reward for his virtue, he is thrown into prison. There he finds himself in the company of Pharaoh’s cupbearer and baker. Each has a dream. When Joseph asks one morning why each seems so depressed  they reply, “We had dreams, and there is no one to interpret them.” Joseph replies, “Surely G-d can interpret! Tell me your dreams.”

Despite his continued misfortune, even though G-d still has not said one word of consolation or reassurance to him, made one utterance to mitigate his fear and his pain and his suffering, Joseph believes that G-d is operating in the background. This pattern will continue. When Joseph interprets Pharaoh’s dreams, he will make certain that Pharaoh understands that it is only through G-d’s grace that Joseph is able to interpret his dreams.  Pharaoh recognizes that “the spirit of G-d” is with Joseph and appoints him second in command over all of Egypt. Finally, Joseph forgives his brothers for selling him into slavery with the words, “It was not you who sent me here, but G-d, in order to insure your survival and save your lives.”

In this respect, we can identify with Joseph far easier than with the Patriarchs or Matriarchs, to whom G0d speaks at crucial junctures in their lives. We too face the challenges in our lives without G-d speaking to us directly. We too must maintain our faith in G-d in the absence of G-d’s forthright and immediate presence. We may wonder -- is G-d there for us, is G-d listening? There is a beautiful song that I have taught the children on Sunday mornings that addresses this question. It is by musicians and Jewish educators Peter and Ellen Allard.

Are you listening G-d, are you really there/ Are you listening G-d/ How do I know you care?

Are you listening G-d/ When I say my prayers?/ Are you listening G-d, are you listening?

The song goes on to ask if G-d is listening when we wake in the morning, when we go through our day, when we go to sleep. The song answers the question in this way:

I am listening G-d, when I say my prayers/ I am listening G-d, and yes I know you care/ I am listening G-d and I KNOW you’re there/ I am listening G-d, I am listening.

As it says in our prayer, “Hear, O Israel” – we are urged to listen to the message in our prayers and our scripture, for it is there that G-d speaks to us. We need to pay attention to presence of G-d in our lives and to the miracles that are around us.

Shabbat Shalom

Dreaming Big

In her 2002 album, entitled “Halos and Horns” Dolly Parton sings a ballad about an old mountain woman who people come to see from miles around. This woman had a special gift. As Dolly Parton tells it:

In a little pouch of burlap
Tied with a piece of twine
There were bones all shapes and sizes
Gathered through the course of time
She'd throw them out before you
She swore that she could see
The present, past, and future
She could read your destiny

These old bones, I shake and rattle
These old bones, I toss and roll
And it's all in where they scatter
Tells you what the future holds.

Can the future be foretold?  Are our destinies determined at birth? Our parasha this opens with Jacob settling down in the Land of Canaan. Up to this point he has led a tumultuous life, filled with exile and wandering, with family strife, deception and much heartache. At the ripe old age of 130, his old bones look forward to some rest and tranquility. His younger son, Joseph, however is disliked by his older brothers. This dislike turns to hatred as Joseph shares with them his dreams about his future. He dreams that one day his brothers and his father will bow down to him. Perhaps Joseph understands his dreams as prophetic, foretelling his and their destinies. His brothers clearly understand his dreams as aspirational and detest his naked ambition and what they see as his hunger for power and domination.

One of Joseph’s dreams was that the sun, the moon and the stars were bowing down to him. It is an interesting image because most people in the civilized world at that time thought that their destinies were governed by the stars, that their lives were determined by the position of the heavenly bodies at the time that they were born. The Akkadian language and culture, based in Mesopotamia, shaped the understanding of life for all of the people in the region, including the ancient Hebrews. The Akkadian word “mazeltu” means “position of a star” in an astrological chart. The word “mazel”, as in “mazel tov” came from this Akkadian word. When we say it we mean “congratulations” but its derivation puts its meaning closer to “may your stars bring you good fortune”.  A “shlimazel”, therefore is a Yiddish word for someone who is star crossed.

There is the old Yiddish joke: What is the difference between a shlimiel – one who is clumsy- and a “shlmazel” – a person who is unlucky. A shlimiel is a person who spills a cup of tea -- a shlimazel is the person who gets it on his trousers.

The prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah cautioned the people against consulting astrologers to predict their future. The Rabbis of the Talmud accept the claims of astrology, but hold that they do not apply to the Jewish people.  The medieval sage Maimonides completely rejects the claims of astrologers, holding that the belief that the stars influence our fates is theologically incompatible with the concept of free will.

No one can foretell the future. The future is, to a large extent, in our hands.  In 2014, Israel’s President Shimon Peres addressed Congress on his receiving the Congressional Gold Medal. He concluded his remarks by saying:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I leave you today with one piece of advice. It is the advice of a boy who dreamed on a kibbutz but who never imagined where his blessed life would take him. When Theodore Herzl said: “If you will it, it is no dream.” He was right. Looking back on the life of Israel, our dreams proved – Not to be too big – But too small.

“Because Israel achieved much more than I could have ever imagined. So I ask only one thing of you, the United States of America -- this mighty nation of dreamers. Don’t dream small. You are great. Dream big. And work to will those dreams into a new reality. For you and all humanity.”

We should follow the advice of Shimon Peres and the example of Joseph about dreaming big – both as a nation and in our own lives.  They both achieved much more than they could have ever imagined – we could too, if we persist in our dreams, if we don’t give up on them, if we don’t allow ourselves to get discouraged.  Because there are obstacles to overcome and it is hard work, and because there is no guarantee that we will succeed. But still we must try. The author Norman Cousins once wrote, “The tragedy of life is not that we die, but what we let die inside of us while we live.”

In that Dolly Parton song, the old fortune teller, on her death bed, shares her final words with her daughter. After a lifetime of telling fortunes she confides her secret, “You just remember that the magic is inside you/ There is no crystal ball".

Shabbat Shalom

Why the Pittsburgh Shooting is Different

We woke up on Thursday morning to the sickening news that 12 people had been killed by a gunman inside a California country-western dance bar that was hosting an event for college students. The painful, undeniable fact is that becoming the victim of gun violence in the United States has become a part of our daily life. And we are all at risk.   We are at risk at our houses of worship.   We are at risk attending a concert. We are at risk at a bar. We are at risk at a night club. We are at risk in a movie theater. We are at risk on a college campus.  Kindergartners and High School students are at risk. We are at risk in a supermarket. This September alone, there were 42 murders and 214 shootings in Chicago. Chicago Police Deputy Superintendent Anthony Riccio called that “progress” because there were 60 murders and 257 shootings in Chicago a year before in September. Progress?  Not for those 42 families who lost loved ones in September.  Since 2012 there have been at least 14 senseless shootings in Churches in the United States that led to fatalities. Just a year ago, a 21year old man opened fire at a Baptist church in Texas, killing 26 people. In June, 2015 Dylan Roof killed nine African American worshippers, including their pastor, at the Emanuel African Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. In 2012 six members of the Sikh Temple of Wisconsin, in Oak Creek, were fatally shot by a self -described white supremacist. This is the America we live in.

From this perspective, the attack on the Tree of Life Synagogue two weeks ago is just another attack on on a long list of attacks on Americans going about our daily lives. But the killing of American Jews fits into a larger narrative, one that transcends the gun violence occurring in American society today. One rabbi began his sermon on the subject by writing, “It’s hard to believe that along with Masada and York, England ……..Warsaw, Poland and Babi Yar in the Ukraine, and countless other [places] … we now have to add the city of Pittsburgh as being one of those places that become a part of our people’s history, with the eleven Jews that were massacred there for no other reason than being Jewish.” The massacre in Pittsburgh is a part of the long history of anti-Semitism that began well before Columbus came to these shores. When the shooter shouted “All Jews must die” when he stormed the Tree of Life synagogue, he was using the language of Muslim fundamentalists of today, the German Nazis and the Hungarian Arrow Cross before them, and the Cossack Marauders before them, and the Chmielnicki pogromists before them, and the Crusaders before them, and the Romans before them. He was tapping in to a vein of hatred against our people that goes back 2500 years to the destruction of the first Temple in Jerusalem. So whereas the violence in Pittsburgh is part and parcel of  the general pattern of violence that other groups have experienced in recent years in the United States, it also has the particular scourge of anti-Semitism that has been part of the very fabric of Western Civilization since its inception.

In this instance, it is clear that the Jewish community was targeted because of the value we place on extending a helping hand to the stranger, of standing up for the needy and oppressed.   This time the stranger, the other, the besieged are migrant families seeking refuge in our land.

We know all too well how vulnerable the stranger can be. Our Torah portion for this week relates that Isaac and his family were forced to leave their homes because of famine. They settled in the Land of the Philistines. The Torah tells us that as a refugee to this new land Isaac fears for his life. Yet he settles down, prospers and even becomes wealthy. The natives envy him and accuse him of prospering by exploiting them. They stop up his wells and his is forced to leave. In his new location he digs another well, but the natives claim that the water is theirs. They take the water, although they are willing to let Isaac have the hole. Isaac digs yet another well, but the natives dispute the ownership of that as well. He is forced again to uproot his family and move south, where finally he finds a place to settle.

The  envy, hatred, bigotry and xenophobia that our father Isaac experienced are all too common experiences of refugees, whether they are fleeing famine, violence, or political persecution in all its forms. On his internet postings, the Pittsburgh attacker cited the work of an agency whose acronym is HIAS. He claimed this agency was helping to transport migrant caravans through Mexico that threaten, he said, to “invade” our country. The Hebrew Immigrant Aide Society, or HIAS, is an organization formed by American Jews on the Lower East Side of NYC in 1881. It aimed to help fellow Jews fleeing to America from pogroms in Russia and Eastern Europe. HIAS helped 2 million Jews who fled from Russia, Austrio-Hungary and Romania settle in the United States between 1881 and 1924. Later they helped Jews who survived the Holocaust in Europe, Jews fleeing Hungary in 1956, Cuba in 1960, Czechoslovakia in 1968, Ethiopia in 1977, Iran in 1979 and the Jews of the Former Soviet Union since 1980. Since 2000 HIAS has expanded its work to include resettlement of non-Jewish refugees, both in the United States and across the world.

Today marks the 80^th anniversary of “Kristallnacht,” the “Night of Broken Glass,” referring to the night in Germany and Austria where thousands of windows were shattered in Jewish homes, businesses and synagogues. This pogrom was one more step on the path toward the Shoah, the systematic destruction of European Jewry. From this we learn that hatred and intolerance must be confronted whenever and wherever they appear.

CBS member Kim Sharon wrote on Facebook about one of the most heart-breaking moments for her following the tragedy at the Tree of a Life synagogue last week. That was when her teen age daughter told her that she didn’t think anyone but Jews would care. But the outpouring of love, empathy, compassion and support that has come from our non-Jewish neighbors  this past Sunday night was overwhelming.  As you probably know by now, 850 people packed our synagogue on in what was undoubtedly the largest gathering ever to take place here. All of these friends, families, neighbors, and strangers understood that an attack on a synagogue in Pittsburgh is an attack on the entire People of Israel -- and on democracy itself.

Shabbat Shalom

Stephen Heyman is a freelance journalist based in Pittsburgh. He and his wife, Yanna, moved to the Squirrel Hill neighborhood of Pittsburgh from Paris, France two years ago. Both he and his wife were technically Jewish but had no idea of what that meant. They had never attended services at a synagogue or had a bar or bat mitzvah. The most religious act they performed was to eat lox. They were surprised, then, when they found that the home that they had bought sight unseen was smack in the middle of a neighborhood full of Jewish families.

They were immediately embraced by their mostly Jewish neighbors. Soon invitations to Shabbat dinners came. Neighbors would show up at their door to sound the ram’s horn on Rosh Hashannah or wave the lulav and etrog on Sukkoth. Later that year Stephen and his wife watched in horror as the terrorist attacks unfolded in their hometown of Paris. They were thankful that they lived in Pittsburgh, where they felt safe from terrorism.

Since the murders at the Tree of Life Synagogue in his neighborhood, Stephen writes, he has been thinking about what it means to be a Jew. His thoughts led him to consider the words inscribed on former New York City Mayor Ed Koch’s grave marker. His stone is inscribed with the final words of American Jewish journalist Daniel Pearl, who was murdered in Pakistan by his kidnappers in February 2002. Those words were, “My father is Jewish, my mother is Jewish, I am Jewish.”

He writes: “What a strange thing to put on your grave, I once thought, so intense, so tribal. But now I understand better. I had always deluded myself into believing that being Jewish was an option, something I could switch on or off, depending on the situation. The closer the attacks come, the less I feel that way.”

This story reminded me of an encounter we had on our recent Jewish Heritage Trip to Europe. We visited the Israel Cultural Center in Budapest, Hungary. There we were warmly welcomed by a Hungarian man in his mid-thirties by the name of Tordai Marton. He told us about the Israel Cultural Center and what it was like to grow up as a Jew in Hungary.  On his thirteenth birthday, he said, his mother took him aside and told him she had something important to say. He looked at her expectantly. “You are Jewish”, she said. That was all. Then she walked away.

Tordai was puzzled by that. He knew of Jewish classmates in school, but he never knew that he had a special connection to them. No one had ever told him he was Jewish. He had not been raised Jewish. In the Soviet years, being Jewish in Hungary was something to be hidden, to be kept secret and never to be spoken about. What could it mean that he was Jewish?

That incident recalls the Talmudic story of the man who came to Hillel asking to learn about Judaism while standing on one foot. The man had been driven away by the stern teacher, Shammai, for making such a foolish request. The patient Hillel, however, told him, “Do not do unto others as you would not have others do unto you. The rest is commentary. Go and study.” Impressed by Hillel’s wisdom, the man did go to study and became a great scholar.

“You are Jewish,” said Tordais’ mother. That was enough. Tordai went on to study, to learn what those words meant. Those words set him off on a path, on a quest, to understand.  Although his mother never talked about being Jewish, she must have remembered that in our tradition thirteen marks a significant transition for a Jewish boy. In some ways I felt that statement alone constituted his bar-mitzvah.

I think we all struggle to understand what it means to be Jewish. We often wonder why events that occur hundreds or even thousands of miles away from us, to people we do not know but who are also Jewish, shake us to the core. Why does visiting a restored synagogue from the 16^th century in Krakow, where once prayed a famous sage that most of us have only a passing knowledge of, affect us in such profound ways? On our trip we visited a memorial to the Jews of Budapest on the bank of the Danube river that broke our hearts.  It consisted of shoes lined up along the bank representing the shoes of the innocent men, women and children who were brought to that spot and shot by the Hungarian Arrow Cross soldiers simply because they were Jewish. Their bodies fell into the Danube river and were swept downstream. We can draw a direct line that connects the murderer in Pittsburgh to this memorial on the Danube River. Just as the shooter shouted as he burst into the synagogue last Shabbat, so the Arrow Cross Party in Hungary believed--that “all Jews must die.”

It is fashionable to say today that we are all Jews by choice, that being Jewish is an option, as Stephen Heyman once thought. We think of being Jewish as a garment that can be donned or taken off as our feelings and circumstances change. But the intense feelings that arise in all of us – religious and secular, Orthodox, Conservative or Reform -- when fellow Jews are attacked and murdered in their place of worship leads me to think of Jewish identity in another way. It calls to mind the midrash that says that the souls of all Jews who would someday live were present at the giving of the Torah on Mt. Sinai. In this reading of our tradition, being Jewish is not an option – it is a destiny.

Shabbat Shalom

Message to My Congregants about the Pittsburgh Massacre

I sent the following internet message to CBS congregants on October 31 

My Dear Congregants,

Middy and I were leaving Israel Saturday night when we read the shocking news about a gunman in Pittsburgh who had killed eleven people at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We had spent the week in Israel after traveling on a congregational trip to Europe to explore our Jewish heritage. Our visits to Warsaw, to Krakow, to Auschwitz, to Prague, to Terezin, to Vienna and to Budapest were fascinating yet very sobering. Day after day we learned of once thriving Jewish communities that had been destroyed by the madness of Hitler. From this I learned two lessons. The first is that every day we ought to appreciate the freedom and acceptance that we Jews have as citizens of United States. In all of Jewish history there has never been a country to which we have been more welcome or felt more at home. We should never take that for granted. The second lesson is that by the early 20^th century, the Jews of Europe were fully integrated into the societies in which they lived. They were major contributors to the arts, to science, to industry, to government, to medicine, to architecture. Yet in a matter of a few short years, everything vanished. From this we learn that we must be ever vigilant about our freedoms in the United States. They can disappear in a moment if do not defend them when they are threatened.

That being said, we must not over-react to the horrible event in Pittsburgh. One cartoonist compared it to Kristallnacht, the night in November 1938 when synagogues and Jewish businesses across Germany and Austria were burned to the ground. But this is nothing like Kristallnacht. Kristallnacht was a government sponsored pogrom, meant to dispossess the Jews and drive them out of Austria and Germany. The act of murder in Pittsburgh was an act of one anti-Semitic lunatic. In Germany and in Austria the Jewish citizens were alone. Their neighbors either gleefully participated or stood by as Jews were systematically stripped of their rights and their properties. In contrast, in the aftermath of the Pittsburgh massacre, neighbors of different backgrounds and faiths reached out to comfort the Jewish community. Thousands packed Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Hall in Pittsburgh a day later as religious leaders across faiths, elected officials and members of the community remembered the slain.

As my friend The Reverend Richard Malmberg of Little Home Church in Wayne, Illinois told his congregation last Sunday in response to the Pittsburgh massacre, “We cannot afford the luxury of despair. No matter how we feel, we must reject hate, keep faith with our highest ideals, and pray for God to show us a way.” 

Rabbi

Remarks at the Gathering to Remember the Victims of the Tree of Life Massacre

On Monday evening, October 29 our congregation gathered in our sanctuary to honor and remember the eleven Jewish men and women slain at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh. Below are my remarks at that ceremony.

My Dear Friends,

We come together this evening, devastated, shaken, angry, and in disbelief over  the destruction perpetrated this  past Shabbat  during morning  services at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. There, eleven congregants, brought together on the Holy Shabbat for worship, were killed by a lone gunner, who, in his deranged mind, held Jews responsible for heaven knows what. We come together tonight because we need to be together, we need to mourn together, we need to pray together, we need to be angry together, to be afraid together, to be resolute and brave together, to comfort each other.  We Jews have always and will always meet tragedy and misfortune together.  We need to be here now because at times like this we need community to support one other, to be reminded to love and not to hate, to be reminded that goodness will overcome evil.  

The Jewish world is a small one. I am sure many of us may have personal connections to Squirrel Hill, the neighborhood where the shooting occurred.  Diane Rosenthal Hurt of Congregation Etz Chaim in Lombard lost two brothers, David and Cecil Rosenthal, who were in their fifties.  They were both intellectually disabled and lived in a group home, yet they never missed a Shabbat morning at the synagogue. "When it came time to take the Torahs out, Cecil always stepped forward to carry it, and David was right behind him. The rabbis knew: You've got to give them a Torah to carry," said Barton Schachter, a past president for Tree of Life.

I too have a personal connection to Squirrel Hill. I attended college at the University of Pittsburgh, and taught religious school – sixth graders  on Tuesday and ninth graders on Sunday morning – at a Reform synagogue in that neighborhood.   In addition, Rabbi Jonathan Perlman, the Rabbi at one of the three congregations that met in the Tree of Life Synagogue, was a colleague of mine in Springfield, Massachusetts from 2004 to 2008.  On Shabbat, when the shooting broke out, Rabbi Perlman had just begun praying with a half dozen congregants in the basement. He closed the door to the chapel and pushed his congregants into a large supply closet. The gunman actually looked into the closet, but did not see them, and Rabbi Perlman and his congregants survived.

I don’t know from where Rabbi Perlman drew the strength to speak before thousands at a public vigil Sunday night in Pittsburgh. There, holding back tears, he said, “What happened yesterday will not break us. It will not ruin us. We will continue to thrive and sing and worship and learn together and continue our historic legacy in this city with the friendliest people that we know.”

Tonight is a night to remember and to mourn, to come together and to hug one another, either literally or figuratively. It is a time to pray. I read a passage in a book recently by Mohsin Hamed called Exit West. The book contained one of the most beautiful passages I have ever read about prayer. The chief protagonist, who is a refugee displaced by war, explains why he prays:

“When he prayed he touched his parents, who could not otherwise be touched/ and he touched a feeling that we are all children who lose our parents/ all of us/ every man and woman and boy and girl/ and we too will all be lost by those who come after us and love us/ and this loss unites humanity/ unites every human being/ the temporary nature of our being-ness, and our shared sorrow/ the heartache we each carry and yet too often refuse to acknowledge in one another/ and out of this [he] felt it might be possible/ in the face of death/ to believe in humanity’s potential for building a better world/ and so he prayed/as a lament/as a consolation/ and as a hope ……….”

We too gather here tonight in the face of death, recognizing our common humanity, affirming our belief that we can build a better world, consoling one another in a time of uncertainty, and resolving to work toward a world, where, as the Prophet Micha says, “Each person can sit under their vine and fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid.” 

Yom Kippur Day Sermon 2018

Reaching Out To One Another

There is nothing that comes easier to us than speech.  And yet, our tradition understands how fraught speech actually is -- how hard it is to speak words that build up and enrich and not words that put down and devalue; how hard it is to speak words that heal and repair and not words that denigrate or shame, how hard it is to disagree without being disagreeable. That is why we conclude our Amidah with the words "My God, guard my tongue from doing evil, and my lips from saying words that are deceitful."   And that is why eleven of the forty three sins enumerated in the “al cheyt” prayer, the confessional prayer that we say on Yom Kippur, are committed through speech. This morning I want to focus on a subset of those sins -- scoffing, contempt, derision, arrogance, hardening of our hearts, stubbornness.

And that is why an article in this month’s Hadassah magazine entitled, “Politics in the Pews”caught my attention. It opens with the story of Michelle Szpilinger, a 39 year old Orthodox Jew who is finding it difficult to find an Orthodox synagogue in her neighborhood where she feels comfortable. Michelle identifies herself as politically liberal,  but the Orthodox community to which she belongs tends toward the politically conservative. When she attends synagogue she feels lonely, she feels like an outsider.. She feels that she no longer fits in. Fortunately, she eventually found a Facebook community of like-minded Orthodox Jews, and joined it.

Then there is Andrew Smith, a registered Republican who moved to Arizona from New Jersey in November of 2016. He is a Reform Jew. When he moved to Scottsdale he sought out a Reform synagogue. He was so offended by the rabbi’s sermon critical of the administration’s immigration policy that he walked out and never returned. He felt that a person with his political views would not be welcome in that synagogue. He now attends Chabad. “They leave politics out of it,” he explained.

It makes me feel sad to hear that a politically liberal woman feels so disconnected and isolated that she felt she could not find a home in an Orthodox synagogue. It pains me to hear that a politically conservative man is so distressed by a rabbi’s sermon that he felt he could not find a home in a Reform synagogue. It made me wonder -- are there members of our congregation who feel equally uncomfortable coming to our synagogue because of their political views? That thought concerns me, as it should all of us. We pride ourselves on being a “welcoming community” -- but are we really equally welcoming to everyone across the political spectrum?

This is the world we live in. Whether it be in our families, our synagogues, or our country we have difficulty tolerating the tension that comes with being in the same room with someone who holds political views that are different from our own. Social science research bears out that we are an increasingly divided country.  In 1960, just 5 percent of Republicans and 4 percent of Democrats said they would be unhappy if a son or daughter married someone from the other party. Today, half of Republicans and a third of Democrats say they would be unhappy if a son or daughter married someone in the other party.

I think this stems from our belief that we, and only those who think like us, have a hold on the truth. Polls show that significant numbers from each political party consider members of the other party exceptionally ill-informed, unprincipled and dishonest! We approach one another with our minds made up, our positions set, our defenses raised for battle. Many of us have no interest in truly listening to what another person has to say. We avoid saying things that might be unpopular or controversial because we don’t want to deal with the pain of having someone call us out, attack us, or shame us. While we cherish our freedom of speech, we have forgone our capacity to listen.

The Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai, zichrono livracha, wrote a poem expressing the sterility of talking with one another when either or both of the parties has foreclosed the possibility of being influenced by the other.

From the place where we are right/ Flowers will never grow/ In the spring.

The place where we are right/  Is hard and trampled/  Like a yard.

But doubts and loves/ Dig up the world  /  Like a mole, a plow…….

The poem is telling us that in order to engage in a productive conversation from which we, and our understanding of an issue, can grow, we must leave room for doubt in our own position. Nothing can sprout in  ground  hardened by our convictions. “Doubt and love dig up the world,” he writes. We must not only leave room for questioning our own position, but we must engage with those who hold different positions with love in our hearts. Our disagreements should not come from a place of aggression and a desire to destroy a person or their positions, but from a place of dignity and honor for a fellow human being.

We all know very well that listening to one another is not easy. Yet, often we can learn the most from those who have divergent ideas and have different experiences in life from our own. The story is told in the Talmud about the relationship that developed between Rabbi Yochanan and Resh Lachish. Rabbi Yochanan and Resh Lachish were from completely different backgrounds. Rabbi Yochanan was the pre-eminent scholar of his day. Resh Lachish was a highway robber. Yet they became fast friends. Resh Lachish repented and became a great teacher in his own right. Rabbi Yochanan once said that whenever he would interpret a text Resh Lachish would pose twenty four objections to his position, to which he, Rabbi Yochanan, would furnish twenty four solutions. This forced Rabbi Yochanan to hone his own thinking as he addressed his friend’s challenges one by one.

So far, so good -- until one day Resh Lachish was teaching a class at the Academy. Rabbi Yochanan disagreed with him about a point of Law. Rabbi Yochanan lost his temper and became frustrated. Rabbi Yochanan said, “You must be right after all, Resh Lachish, for a robber knows his trade.” Resh Lachish was hurt. Rabbi Yochanan had brought up his past in front of the students of the Academy and had shamed Resh Lachish publically.  “And how have you ever helped me,” Resh Lachish retorted. “When I was a robber they called me ‘Master’ and in the Academy they call me ‘Master’”. Now Rabbi Yochanan was hurt. After all he had done for Resh Lachish, to be treated this way! The falling out between the two friends was complete.

As a result of their harsh words to one another, Resh Lachish became gravely ill. But Rabbi Yochanan, angry, hurt, and proud, refused to pray for his healing. When Resh Lachish died, Rabbi Yochanan became deeply depressed and remorseful. He died shortly after of a broken heart.

It is a tragic ending to a wonderful relationship. That’s what can happen when stubbornness, pride, jealousy, suspicion and public shaming interfere with the honest exchange of views. It need not end that way, however. Fortunately, our tradition offers us another model of relating to those who hold opinions different from our own.

The Mishnah, an early compilation of the Oral Law,relates the following:  For three years the students of  Rabbi Hillel and the students of Rabbi Shammai were at loggerheads over an issue of Jewish law. These issues are not of just academic interest. The Rabbis debate issues of law because they seek to discern how G-d wants us to live our lives. One group of students insisted, “The Law is according to our interpretation” and the other group insisted, “No, the Law is according to our interpretation.” Finally, a divine voice from heaven rang out and declared, “Both of your opinions is right, but the law should be enacted according to the Students of Rabbi Hillel!”

The rabbis of the Talmud, who lived three hundred years after the event  just described, are perplexed. If both the School of Hillel and the School of Shammai were correct about an issue of Jewish Law, why did the Blessed Holy One decide that it was the interpretation of the School of Hillel that should prevail? They answer, “The students of Hillel were good listeners and patient; when they were insulted they showed restraint. When they taught, they would cite not only their teachings but the teachings of the students of Shammai as well. Moreover, they honored their opponents. They presented the students of Shammais position prior to stating their own understanding and analysis of the Jewish law in question. The qualities demonstrated by the School of Hillel that merited that their interpretations be enacted -- patience,  restraint, and understanding-- are all clearly lacking  in much of our discourse today. It is all about, as Aretha Franklin put it -- R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Respect for the dignity of every human being, listening to their positions and remaining open to the possibility that we still have something to learn from those who hold opinions that differ from our own.

A moving example of this in our own time is the relationship between former Secretary of State John Kerry and the late Senator John Mccain. As you may recall, Kerry, a decorated Navy veteran, was a spokesperson for a group called “Vietnam Veterans Against the War.” that sought an end the war in Vietnam. McCain, of course, was held prisoner of war in North Vietnam and endured years of mistreatment and torture by his captors.  At McCain’s passing, Kerry wrote, “"We met 32 years ago. We both loved the Navy, but had opposite views about the war of our youth. We didn’t trust each other, but really we didn’t know each other. After a long conversation on a long flight, we decided to work together to make peace with Vietnam and with ourselves here in America……..We traveled together to Vietnam and together, we found common ground in the most improbable place. I stood with John, the two of us alone, in the very cell in the Hanoi Hilton where years of his life were lived out in pain but always in honor……...John McCain showed all of us how to bridge the divide between a protester and a POW, and how to find common ground even when it was improbable. I will be grateful for that lesson every day of my life.”

In Hebrew this attitude is called “Kavod Bri-oot” -- honoring all human beings. It is the recognition that we are all created in the image of G-d and all human beings, no matter what our religion, race, gender, sexual orientation, or political opinion, have an inherent dignity that we should embrace, uphold and expand. As the Jewish sage Ben Azzai says in Pirke Avot “Do not scorn any person, and do not discount any thing -- for every person has his or her hour, and every creature of G-d has their rightful place in the world.”

G’mar Chatimah Tovah

Kol Nidre Sermon 2018

The Changing Nature of Community

“Tell me, Rabbi, how would re-joining the synagogue make my life better?”

That question was addressed to Rabbi Paul Kipnes of Congregation Kol Ami in California after he approached a former congregant about rejoining his synagogue. I don’t think that question would would have occurred to anyone a generation or two ago. That was a time when Americans had a much stronger belief in G-d.  A time when a young person was expected to marry early, have children, join their  parent’s church or synagogue and stay a member for life. Today, joining a church or a synagogue is no longer a family tradition or a communal expectation -- it is an individual choice. People no longer feel an obligation to support or affiliate with a religious community out of family tradition or loyalty. Rabbi Harold Kushner calls this change the shift from “we” to “me”. People want to know what’s in it for them!

Perhaps some of us here today have also asked that question. Rabbi Kipnis admitted that he struggled with this woman’s question. He thought about it a great deal before he responded.

“It depends on what you mean, better,” he wrote. “Joining a synagogue won’t make you physically healthier -- for that you should join a gym. It won’t make you wealthier -- for that you should get a new job. But being part of a synagogue means promulgating the values that you, and your tradition, hold dear. It means always having a place to go to pray. It means that you can have a community that is there for you when you are in need. It means that you can be there for others when they are in need. It means that you have a community with whom you can celebrate the joys of life, and with whom you can share the burden of the sorrows.  It means that you have a spiritual home, a place where you can seek and perhaps find G-d, and find others who will help you along that path. It means having a place to learn about Judaism and about yourself. In joining a synagogue you assume the responsibility to raise the next generation, as the previous generation did for yours.”

Extolling the virtues of joining a synagogue may not prove to be enough to insure its future. The very word “synagogue” is from the ancient Greek meaning “to bring together”. The fact that it is ancient Greek can tell us how long this institution has been around. Two thousand years later, it may need a re-imagining for the 21rst century. The need for community is there, the need for a spiritual connection is there, the need for moral education is there, the need to pass one’s heritage on to the next generation is there as well. Yet it is no secret that our model of synagogue community, established in the post-World War II years, is fraying at the edges. Sociologist Steven M. Cohen notes that there are four times the number of synagogue members in the over 55 year old age group as there are in the 35-44 year old age group. The implications are clear. He writes, “Unless we see a massive influx into the synagogue [of younger people] …… the total number of congregational members in both [Conservative and Reform synagogues] will decline dramatically in the years ahead.” The synagogue of the future, therefore,  may need to reach out to Jews and organize itself differently than it does today.

Rabbi Noa Kushner is a 48 year old Reform Rabbi. Seven years ago she founded  , an independent Jewish community in San Francisco called “The Kitchen”. “The Kitchen” is what is known as an “emergent community” which is defined as a community that is developed in order to address new problems or articulate new solutions. Rabbi Kushner seeks to translate the traditional Jewish values of G-d, Torah and Israel for a new generation of young men and women in their twenties and thirties in the Bay area.  In order to reach these young adults, they borrow their “business model” from the “start-up” culture for which San Francisco is famous. Rabbi Kushner explains, “It’s all about rolling things out quickly, getting customer feedback, meeting the needs of the market, making changes based on the feedback you get.” Just like a start-up would do, “The Kitchen” seeks advice from consulting firms that advise organizations on design and branding. These consulting firms help “The Kitchen” to articulate its mission and refine its approach to the young Jews they are trying to reach. They market themselves, therefore, as a “religious community” and not a “synagogue”, and call themselves “The Kitchen” instead of Congregation such and such. The name itself evokes a hands on experience, a place that is open to experimentation, a place where everyone is welcome,  a place where you can sample hor d’oeuvres or sit down to a complete meal. “The Kitchen” is trying to involve people in “doing Jewish”, as they say,  in a way that fits the lifestyle and self-understanding of this younger generation of Jewish adults.

The term “doing Jewish” represents a shift in how young Jews in these emergent communities see themselves. A generation ago the focus was on “being Jewish” -- an identity that one had that would hopefully lead one to join a synagogue and otherwise affiliate with Jewish institutions. Today, many people have multiple identities -- their parents may have different religions, they may have mixed ancestry, they may draw their value system from different beliefs. Labeling oneself with one exclusive identity has become less attractive to young Jewish adults. Therefore, the idea of “doing Jewish” -- just as you don’t have to “be Chinese” to “do Chinese”, or be Hindu to “do Yoga” so you can “do Jewish” without having the traditional beliefs, obligations, or ancestry that has defined who is a Jew in the past.

Instead of a permanent home, with its mortgage and maintenance costs,“The Kitchen” uses various spaces in and around San Francisco. Instead of a gift shop, “The Kitchen” has developed  a Shabbat pop-up store that sells white tablecloths, Judaica, and Shabbat reading material. Instead of meeting the rabbi in her office,  a food truck travels around the city from which the rabbi dispenses advice to passersby on anything from cooking to whom to marry. The idea, says Rabbi Kushner is “that, once upon a time, if you lived in a small, tight-knit Jewish community, there were people to call upon when you had a question, when you had a problem, when you needed guidance.  Just because Jews may no longer live in tight-knit communities doesn’t mean those questions no longer exist or that they should go unanswered.”

However, like traditional synagogues, “The Kitchen” needs to pay its bills. It raises money from the Jewish Federation, various well known foundations and a number of wealthy individuals. Others can be, what they call, “subscribers”. A “subscription” entitles you to all of the benefits of what we call “membership”. There are five subscriptions levels described by edgy names ranging from the family “Swagger Wagon” level for $1,889.88 a year to the “Starving Artist” level at $499.36 a year. If you are not ready to subscribe, you can “shop” -- that is the word they use -- you can shop a-la-carte. And note the “tongue-in-cheek” nod to our commercial culture. “Getting Hitched” will cost you 999 dollars and 99 cents. Purchasing “The Big One Three” -- a bar mitzvah -- will cost you 2,999 dollars and 99 cents. A baby-naming goes for $360.00 and a meeting with the rabbi costs anywhere from nothing for a 15 minute chat to $250 for two hours of the rabbi’s time. Of course, there is a button on their website that you push to “buy” which takes you to your “cart” where you can “check out”. It is almost as if they are saying, “If you can’t beat our consumer culture -- join it! Make it work for you!” 

“The Kitchen” is both new and old -- as old as the Jewish people themselves. Going back to the time of Abraham, whatever new conditions we have met, we have always responded with creative and innovative ideas that addressed the changing needs and circumstances of our communities. Our ability to adapt to new realities and new ways of living is one of the secrets of our survival as a people. I don’t know if “The Kitchen” is a model for the future, whether it will work outside of the San Francisco Bay Area. I do know that fifty years from now, synagogues will need to find creative ways to flourish in an changing social environment which we cannot foresee. 

I close with the words of Rabbi Steven M. Rosman who reminds us of the importance of the synagogue whatever it may call itself, whatever form it may take, whether it is one building or multiple locations, whether we are called customers or congregants, whether we are “members” or “subscribers” whether we “are Jewish” or “do Jewish”.  “Everything I learned I learned in synagogue,” writes Rabbi Rosman,

"At synagogue I learned not to kill, not to lie, not to steal, not to envy that which belongs to others.  Here I learned to honor my parents to honor my teachers, to honor those who devote their lives to simple, unheralded mitzvot.  I learned that the reason our world turns is not because of oil or nuclear energy, but because of “children in the schoolhouse" whose every breath sustains our world.  I learned to sanctify time and not space, to revere wisdom and not wealth, and to esteem humility and not hubris.  I learned that the world is sustained "not by might and not by Power". but by "Torah, worship, and acts of loving kindness.

"I learned not to think in global terms, but rather to think in individual human terms; that I do not have to try and save the world, but if I save one life it is as if I had.  I learned not to separate myself from the Community, not stand by indifferently while a neighbor (Somalian, Ethiopian, Bosnian, Floridian, Palestinian) [Darfur] bleeds, not to place obstacles before the blind, and not to curse the deaf.  Instead, I was taught that everyone whether old or young, whether black or white, whether from here or from there, whether literate or illiterate, whether rich or poor, whether this shape or that, whether thinking like me or not, whether praying like me or not, all share a common spark of divinity, a common Parent, and a common destiny.  Here I was taught to remember that I, too, was once a stranger, an alien, an outsider.  So were my parents.  So were my grandparents.  Here I was taught that to love others I first had to love myself.  But to be "only for myself" was not enough.

"It was in synagogue that I learned days begin in darkness and move to light, and life flows from darkness to light and light to darkness.  Here I learned that Adonai called the darkness "good", too.  I learned that choice is mine, and so is responsibility for my choices.  I learned that change is possible and that the "gates of repentance are always open."

Gmar Chatimah Tovah -- May We All be Sealed in the Book of Life for the Coming Year

Rosh Hashanah 2018 Sermon First Day

"Why Have You Deleted Me From Your Life?"

There is a wonderful story by the American author Ernest Hemingway. He tells about a Spanish father who wants to reconcile with his son. The son has run away to Madrid and his father has not seen or heard from him in some years.

In order to locate his son, he takes out this ad in the El Liberal newspaper:

"Paco, meet me at the Hotel Montana at noon on Tuesday.

 All is forgiven. Love, Papa."

Paco is a common name in Spain, and when the father goes to the square he finds 800 young men named Paco waiting for their fathers.

What drew them to the hotel? As Hemingway tells it, it was the words

"All is forgiven." Notice that the father did not say, "All WILL BE forgiven IF you do this or that." Or, "All WILL BE forgiven WHEN you do such and such."

He simply says, "All is forgiven." No strings attached.

The story is a poignant one and as such touches on a theme that we rarely discuss when speaking about family life. We all know that relationships within families can at times be quite strained. More often than we would like to admit, those stresses reach the breaking point and lead to estrangement. Adult children stop talking to their parents. A sibling stops talking to his or her brother or sister. Parents make it clear that their adult child is no longer welcome home for the holidays. We often talk about the family as it should be. We less often talk about the family as it often is. This is the theme I would like to address this morning.

In recent years social science researchers have been studying family estrangement, which they define as the rupture of a previously existing relationship between family members, through physical and/or emotional distancing, often to the extent that there is little or no communication.. The researchers have discovered that estrangement is much more common that we once thought. Eight percent of adults interviewed in one study said that they have cut off contact entirely with a parent, child, or sibling. And close to twenty percent of us -- one in five -- report that a close relative has completely cut off contact with us.

Many of us don’t know why a family member has distanced themselves from us or has cut off contact altogether. One young woman, Shoshana, had not seen her sister in years. Sometimes, she says, she dreams about her sister.  She understands those dreams as representing a longing for her sister that will not abate. She has wracked her brain to try to understand the animosity that her sister holds toward her. In an attempt to find some answers she recently sent her sister an email. “We are sisters. Why have you deleted me from your life?” she wrote. In a delayed response, her sister simply wrote, “You should know”.

There is a stigma attached to estrangement which makes it difficult for us to acknowledge it, let alone discuss it. One woman who is estranged from a daughter writes, “The subject is fraught with such shame and disgrace ……... Oh….bad parent! What did he/she do?! That’s the reason I don’t bring it up with friends in church or the coffee shop.” Another writes, “I always kept it to myself but i am not going to do that any longer……..I bet every one of us knows somebody else whose child(ren) are estranged, we just have no knowledge of it. Even one of my closest friends in my neighbourhood……...doesn’t know. She just knows my daughter lives in XXX and my son lives in XXX and I mostly talk about my non-estranged son. She probably thinks I play favourites or something but is too polite to say so.”

The Torah is full of stories of family estrangement. A quarrel between the brothers Cain and Abel leads to murder. Noah curses his son Ham. Abraham and Lot separate due to a conflict over land rights. Jacob does not see his brother, Esau, for twenty years. Leah and Rachel are bitter rivals. Joseph’s brothers detest him.

This morning we read the story of the birth of Isaac and Abraham sending his first born child, Ishmael away. We know that Abraham loved Ishamael. We know Abraham did not want to send Ishmael away. It is Sarah who insists. The last we hear of Ishmael in tomorrow morning’s Torah reading is that  he has settled in the Wilderness of Paran and his mother has found a wife for him. The next we hear of Ishmael is years later, when he returns for his father Abraham’s funeral. Have you ever wondered what happened to Ishmael in the intervening years? Did Abraham miss him? Did Ishmael try to contact his father?

According to the Rabbis, after three years Avraham goes to see Yishmael. This is no small thing. Keep in mind that the Rabbis who tell this story have accused Ishmael of every crime from attempted murder, to idolatry to sexual impropriety. Before Abraham goes he swears to Sarah that he will not descend from the camel when he arrives at Ishmael’s home.  He set off alone to visit his son and arrives at mid-day. Ishmael’s wife comes out to greet the stranger. Abraham asks, “Where is Yishmael?”  She says to him, “He has gone with his mother to fetch fruits and dates from the wilderness.” Abraham says to her, “Give me a little bread and a little water, for my soul is weary from the journey in the desert.” But Ishmael’s wife is not a generous or hospitable woman, and she refuses to share food or water with this stranger.  She says to him, “I have neither bread nor water.”  Abraham replies, “When Yishmael comes, tell him this story and say to him, “Change the threshold of your house for it is not good for you.”  “When Yishmael returns his wife tells him the story.  Yishmael understands, and sends her away.  His mother Hagar (then) finds a new wife for him.

               

Three years later Avraham goes to see Yishmael and again swears to Sarah that he would not descend from the camel when he arrives at Ishmael’s home.  He arrives there at mid-day and finds Ishmael’s new wife, Fatima.  He asks for Ishmael and is told he is away. He asks for some bread and water. She gives him some food and drink.  Avraham rises and prays before the Holy One, Blessed be He, on behalf of his son, and the house of Yishmael is filled with all good things. When Yishmael returns, his wife tells him the story and Yishmael understands that his father Abraham still loves him.

This story teaches us a few lessons when we experience estrangement from family in our own lives. First of all, one can never forget one’s family, no matter how much one wants to put them out of your mind. A parent can never forget a child. A sibling can perhaps put a brother or sister out of their lives, but they can never put them out of their memories. Abraham can send Ishmael away, but he can never forget him.  He continues to worry about him and he wants the best for him.

A second lesson we can learn from this story is that we ought not to adhere to rigid rules or formal expectations when reaching out to an estranged family member. Abraham doesn’t say, “He’s my son, he should make the first move” Abraham doesn’t make excuses for inaction, either. He doesn’t say, “I would call him, but there would be a price to pay at home.” And, just as important, he doesn’t go behind his wife Sarah’s back. He doesn’t tell Sarah he is going to take a business trip, and then go see Ishmael on the sly. I imagine Abraham and Sarah had quite a row when Abraham told her it was important for him that he see his son. I imagine that took a while to work out. Sarah wants him to eliminate all contact. Eventually she and Abraham arrive at a compromise. Abraham will only visit him every three years. When he does visit him, he promises Sarah that he will not stay long. She extracts a promise from him that he will not even alight from his camel. This means that even were Ishmael home, Abraham would not even be able to give him a hug!

Ishmael also demonstrates understanding. When he hears that a stranger has come to visit him and has given him advice, he does not reject it. He could have responded angrily to Abraham’s visit. He could have reasoned, “If my old man cares for me so much, why did he throw me out of the house in the first place?” To me this indicates that he has some understanding, some empathy, for the situation that led his father to send him away from the home in the first place. He shows an understanding of his father’s predicament, and even of his father’s agony. This helps him to open his heart to his father, despite the pain that his father has caused him. He takes the advice! He finds a new wife, a wife who is better for him!

So, if you are a parent who is estranged from your child, don’t stand on ceremony, don’t make excuses, hop on your camel and let them know you still care about them. If you are a child who is estranged from your parent, know that they still love you and care about you and want the best for you.  And if you are a sibling who has stopped speaking to your brother or sister, ask yourself the question, “How does it feel to live your life never speaking to them again?” Does it make you happy? If not, do you think you need to do something about it?

Rabbi Harold Kushner writes, “Forgiveness is not a favor we do for the person who offended us. It is a favor we do for ourselves, cleansing our souls of thoughts and memories that lead us to see ourselves as victims and make our lives less enjoyable. When we understand we have little choice as to what other people do but we can always choose how we will respond to what they do, we can let go of those embittering memories and enter the New Year clean and fresh.”

Rosh Hashanah 2018 Evening Sermon

Giving the Stars their Names

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson go on a camping trip, set up their tent, and fall asleep. Some hours later, Holmes wakes his faithful friend. “Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see.” Watson replies, “I see millions of stars.” Watson ponders for a minute, and then continues. “Astronomically speaking, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Chronologically, it appears to be approximately a quarter past three. Theologically, it’s evident the Lord is all-powerful and we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, it seems we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. Holmes, what does it tell you?” Holmes is silent for a moment, and then speaks. “Watson, you idiot, it tells me that someone has stolen our tent.”

The story is told of a scientist by the name of William Beebe and his good friend, President Theodore Roosevelt. Once, Beebe was visiting Roosevelt at his home at Sagamore Hill, on Long Island. Before retiring to bed, Roosevelt and Beebe went out to look at the night sky, searching for a tiny patch of light near the constellation of Pegasus. “That is the Spiral Galaxy in Andromeda,” explained Beebe. “It is as large as our Milky Way. It is one of a hundred million galaxies. It consists of one hundred billion suns, each larger than our sun.” The Roosevelt turned to his companion and said, “Now I think we are small enough. Let’s go to bed.”

Who has not felt small and insignificant when looking at the stars in the heavens?  When King David looked up into the heavens one night three thousand years ago from his palace in Jerusalem, he was moved to praise G-d as “the One who heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds/ G-d, Who counts the stars, giving each one its name.” This challenges us -- Could God, who created all of those stars in the far heavens, and who names each one, no less, possibly be concerned about my fate here on earth?.  Does G-d really care about my welfare? Is G-d truly aware of my behavior? Is G-d cognizant of every detail of my life, does G-d know things about me that are even hidden from me, does G-d hear my prayers, let alone answer them?

These are no idle questions. The whole point of the High Holidays is that G-d watches us and cares about us, that every deed is known, that all must give an account, that we pass under G-d’s staff one by one, and G-d counts us too, like a shepherd counts his sheep.

“G-d is the One who heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds/ G-d counts the stars, giving each star a name.” When King David wrote that verse, he was making a bold theological statement. Other ancient peoples believed that their gods had created the universe. They probably believed that their gods gave names to all of the stars as well. But none of those ancient civilizations believed that their gods cared much about the well-being of people. None of them believed that their gods cared for the brokenhearted or helped the people recover from illness or catastrophe. For example, In the “Enuma Elish”, an Akkadian creation story from the early second millennium, BCE, the god, Marduk -- the chief of the gods in the Akkadian pantheon -- reveals his plans to create human beings:

“I will establish a savage, “man shall be his name”./ Surely, savage man I will create./ He shall be charged with the service of the gods/that they might be at ease.”

In this ancient Akkadian creation story, the gods care not a whit about the welfare of humankind. In fact, the gods have created humans to look after their well being! People will do all of the work on earth so that the gods can take it easy.  We will be responsible for feeding the gods and stroking their egos by praising them.

I have described two opposing ideas of divinity’s relationship to humanity. King David asserts that that despite G-d’s busy life in creating and running the universe, G-d always finds the time to care about us humans -- to heal us when we are brokenhearted, to be mindful of us when we are wounded. The Akkadian creation story, in contrast, maintains that it is man’s job to care for the needs of the gods.

A thousand years after King David the rabbis of the Talmud would reaffirm his understanding that G-d cares for us.  In a stunning statement, the Talmud teaches that when a person attends Rosh Hashanah services every year, and then does not show up to pray one year, G-d makes inquiries into where that person is. One unexcused absence and G-d goes looking for us -- not to give us detention, but because G-d is genuinely worried about us!

This statement also implies something more about the relationship between human beings and G-d, something that we don’t often think about. The statement suggests that G-d misses us when we absent ourselves from G-d’s presence. How many of us here this evening have ever thought about what G-d’s needs? We assume that G-d is self-sufficient, and therefore that G-d doesn’t need anything from us. But the Talmud proposes that our relationship with G-d is one of mutual dependence. G-d counts on us in the same way that we count on G-d.

The idea that G-d needs man is expressed in this classic Chassidic story. Rebbe Barukh’s grandson, Yechiel, comes running into his study, in tears. “Yechiel, Yechiel, why are you crying,” asked his grandfather. His sobbing grandson explains,“I was playing hide and seek with my friend, but he stopped looking for me and left me alone.” Rebbe Barukh caresses Yechiel’s face, and with tears welling up in his eyes, he whispers softly, “God too Yechiel, God too is weeping. For, He too has been hiding with no one looking for Him.”

Yes, G-d wants us, G-d needs us, to search for Him! However, a lot of us are uncomfortable with this idea that G-d both watches us and needs us. Most of all, it anthropomorphizes G-d, as though our Creator was looking down on us through some vast celestial telescope. Rabbi Abraham Twerski tells the story of a man who rejected this idea of G-d, and in the process discovered something important about himself.

Rabbi Twerski writes:

“At a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, the speaker, who was seven years sober, related that on his initial exposure to AA, he rejected the program.  “It’s all about God,” he said, “and I am an atheist.” He returned a year later, saying that he realized he needed the program in order to stop drinking—but was there any way he could do so without invoking God?  He was told that all he had to do was choose a Higher Power; in fact, he could see the Twelve Step program as his Higher Power. That suited him just fine. Subsequently, he was told that he must find a sponsor to serve as his mentor in sobriety, and he did.  The sponsor told him that he must pray every day.

“Wait a minute,” he said.  “ I was told that I did not have to pray to God.  I don’t believe in God.”

The sponsor said, “That’s okay.  Don’t pray to God. Just pray.”

“What kind of nonsense is that?  How can I pray if I don’t believe in God?”

The sponsor said, “Look here…....  Do you want to get sober or do you want to stay drunk?  If you want to stay sober, then you pray every day.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” the man said, “so I pray every day.  I don’t believe in God. But when I pray, that reminds me that I’m not God.” 

By praying every day this man had a revelation. Through prayer he discovered  qualities attributed to G-d that he could aspire to -- being patient and slow to anger, being compassionate, being generous, being forgiving, being loyal, being kind, being honest and fair, to name a few.This man found that the G-d who he did not believe in wanted him to live his life in ways that he COULD believe in!

The sages say that there are seventy facets of the Torah. By this they mean that there are many valid ways to understand each part of the Torah. What one person may miss, another person may see. We may laugh at the story of Watson and Holmes that I told at the beginning of this sermon,  but in fact the story is very true to life -- often there are things right in front of us that we fail to understand if we do not have someone to help us to find the right perspective to see it.

Following a recent meeting of my book club, one member said, “Had we not talked about this book in the group, I would never have fully understood what we just read. By sharing ideas with one another, we all came to a fuller understanding of the author’s intention.” As we at Congregation Beth Shalom enter this New Year together, may we help one another to see. May we share perspectives with each other that help us to better understand our Author’s intention.

Shana Tovah!

"Until a Hundred and Twenty"

An elderly couple walked into a CVS and told the pharmacist they wanted to get married. "Do you 

sell heart medication?" they asked. He said that of course they do.

"Then how about medicine for circulation?"

The druggist replied, "All kinds."

"Do you have drugs for rheumatism, arthritis, memory problems and scoliosis?"

The pharmacist assured them that they had a wide array of medicines for all of those problems and more.

"And you sell wheelchairs, walkers and canes?"

"Absolutely," said the druggist. "We sell whatever you need."

They looked at each other and smiled. "Great!" the bride-to-be said. "We’d like to register here for our wedding gifts."

This week we are told that Moses has reached his 120^th birthday. This is the age that we Jews traditionally aspire to live. It is a custom in some Jewish circles, when giving ones age or mentioning someone else’s, to add after it – “ad meah ve-esrim” – until 120!  The Torah itself teaches in the Book of Genesis, ““G-d said, “My spirit shall not always strive with man, for he also is flesh; yet his days shall be a hundred and twenty years”.

I would like to live to be a hundred and twenty years – if I could be healthy, like Moses. The Torah tells us that at his death, ‘His eyes had not grown dim, nor had his vigor abated.” The oldest person that I ever knew personally was Morris Goldstein, who was part of my extended family growing up in Scranton.  He died four years ago at age 102. When I last saw him at the shiva for my mother, in 2012, he was 100 years old and still working afternoons at my cousin’s store behind the counter. In Pirke Avot, the ancient Jewish text known in English as “The Ethics of the Fathers”, Rabbi Yehudah ben Teima describes the ages of man. One hundred, he says, is the age as if one is already dead, passed away, and ceased from the world.” Curious to know what the experience of an actual person who had reached this age, I asked Morris Goldstein what was the best thing about reaching a hundred? “No peer pressure,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

If Moses died at age 120, that meant he was 80 years old when he led the Jewish people out of Egypt. At 80 he climbed Mount Sinai twice to receive the Ten Commandments and endured forty years of life in the wilderness after that, leading a people that gave him a lot of tsuris, let me tell you!  But if we need inspiration in order to understand that we can still accomplish things past 80, we don’t need to look as far back as Moses to find it.

Man Kaur is a 102 year old woman from India who just won a gold medal in the 200 meter race in the 100-104 age group at the World Masters Athletic Championships in Malaga, Spain. She completed the 200 meters in 3 minutes and 14 seconds. She also won a gold medal in javelin. She was not a life long runner. She took up track and field at the age of 93 at the urging of her son, Singh, who is also her coach. Since beginning her competitive career, she has participated in events in Canada, Malaysia, New Zealand, Singapore and Taiwan. She has amassed 32 gold medals (often she is the only competitor in her age group). Man Kaur goes to the track to train every day. Three days a week she focuses on shot put and javelin. The other days she concentrates on runs and sprints. In inclement weather, she goes to the gym to lift weights. 

All that practice has paid off. In 2017 she completed a 100 meter run in 74 seconds. Now her time is down to 70 seconds! Not many champions shave 4 seconds off their best times in less than a year.

Of course there are many other inspiring stories. This past summer, Middy and I attended a jazz concert featuring Freddy Cole. Mr. Cole is 86 years old and still performing around the world. Middy and Ariel saw 81 year old Puerto Rican Jazz great Eddy Palmiere perform in Chicago earlier this year.

Why do we have to die at all? The upside of death is that it focuses us. We know we do not have forever on this earth. This is the time of year when this fact should be uppermost in our minds. It is said that Yom Kippur is a rehearsal for death. The white shrouds, the empty pockets, abstinence from food and drink all evoke the spiritual world.  In the Unetaneh Tokef we are reminded of our impermanence: “We are like a fragile vessel, like the grass that withers, the flower that fades, the shadow that passes, the cloud that vanishes, the wind that blows, the dust that floats, the dream that flies away” . This thought should motivate us toward forgiveness, toward reconciliation.  The story is told of a young man in his forties who passed away very suddenly. At the funeral, his brother-in-law broke down sobbing uncontrollably. He and the deceased had not been on speaking terms for over ten years. He couldn’t forgive himself. He kept saying, ‘What did I do to myself? Did I really think we would both live forever?’”

May we all live to be 120! But may we all live as if tomorrow could be our final day on earth.

Shabbat Shalom