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

A Matter of Attitude!

A man had a satisfying dinner at a restaurant. When he was finished with his meal, the waiter asked him if everything was all right. “The food was delicious,” replied the man. “I only wish that I was given more than one piece of bread.” The next time he dined in the restaurant, there were four pieces of bread in the basket. Once again, when the meal was completed, the waiter asked if everything was all right. “My compliments to the chef,” he said. “But one complaint ……..there were only four pieces of bread in the basket.” The next time there were eight pieces of bread in the basket. “The other restaurants give you all the bread you can eat,” he complained. He returned to the restaurant the following week. On his table there was an enormous loaf of bread that was six feet long and two feet wide. It had taken four people to carry it to the table. The chef and the waiters looked on, pleased with themselves, to see how the customer would react.The man looked at the loaf and commented, “Down to one piece again, I see.”

Like this man, the Israelites who were freed from bondage in Egypt had a bad attitude.  Soon after accepting the covenant at Sinai, they lapsed into the idolatrous worship of the Golden Calf. Crippled by the crushing experience of bondage, they careened from one disaster to the next as they journeyed to the Land of Canaan. It didn’t have to be that way. It was all in their attitude. They complained chronically to Moses. They showed little confidence in his leadership or faith in G-d. They longed to return to Egypt. They were rebellious, they were stubborn. They demonstrated that they were unworthy and unready to live as a free people in their own land.

In this week’s parasha, Moses assembles the people to re-affirm the covenant with G-d first entered into at Mount Sinai.  The old generation, born and raised in slavery, has died. Moses addresses the new generation, poised to enter the Land of Canaan, with these words, “You who are standing here today”. Now the usual Hebrew word for “stand” is “Omed” as in “Amidah” – the standing prayer. The word in Hebrew that Moses uses for “standing” -- “Nitzavim” -- is related to the word for monument, in Hebrew – “Matzevah”. Therefore, the word connotes not just “standing” but “standing erect or upright”. The people who are assembled are standing upright when they re-affirm the covenant.  Their posture symbolizes their changed attitude of the Israelites toward life. With this new attitude they are ready to enter the Promised Land and settle it.

Philosopher and psychologist William James, who flourished around the turn of the 20^th century, wrote, “The greatest discovery of my generation is that people can alter their lives by altering their attitudes.”

We cannot change our lives when we remain burdened by our past.  Once they became free men and women, the generation that was slaves in Egypt was unable to move beyond its experience of oppression in Egypt. They maintained the mentality of the slave, and the attitudes that they developed as a subjugated people governed their lives as free men and women and held them back. Their children and grandchildren born in freedom in the wilderness did not carry the baggage of their Egyptian born parents and grandparents. This new generation did not only stand when they were gathered to re-affirm the covenant, they stood upright.

There is a story about a woman who had a beautiful old tree in front of her house. The tree was destroyed in a storm.  When the insurance agent came to see her, she took him to the remains of the majestic old tree. There she bitterly cried that its limbs and trunk had been destroyed by this storm and she wanted the insurance company to make it whole again.

After a brief silence, the agent said, "Cut it down Mam, and forget it."

People similarly hold on to the past when they need to let go. We nurse memories of past losses, recalling the times and the relationships in which we were wounded in our lives -- by neglect, by abuse, by indifference.  We hold on to grudges and refuse to forgive those who hurt us. Instead of cutting our losses and moving on with our lives, we get caught up in “what might have been”. We get stuck in the past, and this prevents us from appreciating the present and welcoming the future with optimism, with hope and with the trust that good things will show up in our lives.

As we enter the New Year, we should ask ourselves.  Do we have attitudes toward life that are holding us back? Are we still carrying burdensome loads from our past that are preventing us from standing erect? Are we holding ourselves back from moving forward because we are unable to free ourselves from our own personal Egypts?

A simple poem by Walter D. WIntle puts that thought into words:

“If you think you are beaten, you are
If you think you dare not, you don't,
If you like to win, but you think you can't
It is almost certain you won't.

If you think you'll lose, you're lost
For out in the world we find,
Success begins with a person’s will
It's all in the state of mind.

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha Ki Tavo The Most Understood Word

I’m going to open my sermon tonight with a trivia question. Everyone but Mark Sperling is invited to participate. No professionals allowed! Here is the question. Do you know the word in the English language that is most understood around the world? When you say this word, people in Europe understand it, people in South America understand it, and in Africa, and across the Middle and the Far East all understand this word. In fact, there are a few words that share this distinction.  “Coca-Cola” is apparently understood almost everywhere.  But I am not going to give a sermon on Coca-Cola. “OK” has become almost universal. The word “coffee” is recognized around the world.  However the answer to our trivia question is ……… Amen.   And in our Torah reading this week – Amen – in Hebrew “ah-mein”, appears 12 times in 12 consecutive verses.

The Israelites are about to enter the Land of Canaan. As the Israelites pass into the Land the Levites will shout a series of twelve warnings to the people. The warnings take the form of, “Cursed be the one who” …..followed by a particular transgression. After each transgression, the Israelites are to respond with – “amen”!  

The word “amen” itself is an affirmation. One definition of “amen” is “so be it”. If one adds the Hebrew letter “hey” to the end of the word, it yields the word “emunah” which means “faith” or “belief”. If you add the letter “nun” in front of it, it yields the word “ne-eh-man” which means “true”. So “amen” might be defined as “you better believe it!” or “true it is!”  

One rabbi in the Talmud understands the three-letter word to be an acronym. He teaches that each of the three letters in the word “amen” represent a word – The first letter, “alef”  represents the word “El” , meaning G-d; the second letter, “mem”  represents the word “melekh” meaning “King”;  the third letter “nun” represents the word “ne-ehman” meaning “true”.  Taken together we have a three word phrase – El Melekh Ne-aman” – G-d is the True King, which, he maintains is the meaning of the word.

Of course, we usually say “amen” after a blessing, not after a curse, as we have in this week’s Torah portion. Since the word “amen” is an affirmation of a statement, one who recites a blessing does not also add the “amen”. For example, one doesn’t recite “ha-motzi lechem min haaretz” and then add “amen” oneself. “Amen” is the response by one who hears the blessing recited by others.

“Amen” is a short word, but important enough that the rabbis went into some detail about the correct and incorrect ways of pronouncing it. They are critical of the person who draws out their “amen” so excessively that they ruin their pronunciation. Then there is the person whose “amen” is too short. Of the “too short” “amens” there are two variations. There is the person who fails to pronounce the final letter of the word, saying “amei” instead. Then there is the person who shortens the first vowel of the word, saying “eh-men” instead of “ah-men”. “Amen” -- not too short, not too long – just right.  

Maimonides teaches that if one hears a fellow Jew utter a blessing, one is obligated to respond “amen”. Even if one only hears part of the blessing, if one understands what the blessing is, one must respond with “amen”. It is a religious duty.  

A priest once visited the Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai, zichrono livracha, in Jerusalem. The priest was from the town in Germany where the poet was born. The priest brought him a triangular stone fragment from an ancient Jewish cemetery in that town. Clearly incised on the fragment was one word – amen.  It inspired the poet to write a short poem with that title.  It reads:

“On my table rests a stone, upon it the word “amen”/ a broken monument, a remnant from the Jewish cemetery that was destroyed more than a thousand years ago in the city where I was born. One word, amen, deeply engraved in the stone/ a hard and final amen over what was and will never be again/ amen soft and melodious like a prayer/ Amen, amen, so may it be your will.” 

The “amen” inscribed upon the stone fragment was, in fact, mute. But the poet invites us to imagine how it would sound if it could talk. Could it be an “amen” of protest or of resignation over the destruction of that cemetery? Or could it be the “amen” of prayer, plaintive and reflective? Could it be joyful, like the “amen” that comes at the conclusion of the shehechiyanu prayer? Could it be a mournful amen, like the response to the mourners’ kaddish? Could it be a thankful “amen” like those uttered in the Grace after Meals? Could it be a hopeful “amen” like that after a prayer for healing, or an awe-inspired “amen” like that said in response to a blessing over a wonder of nature.  

The “amen” incised on that stone fragment is what the rabbis of the Talmud might call an “orphaned amen”. An “orphaned amen” is an “amen” that is said to a blessing that one does not really hear. Like the “amen” on that stone fragment, an “orphaned amen” is an “amen” that has been severed from its blessing. That is not a legitimate “amen” say the rabbis, because one must understand what one is affirming before affirming it.  

Our “amens” should never be routine or perfunctory. Rather, they should be said with feeling, showing that we truly understand the blessing to which we are responding, and that we fully share the experience of the person who is reciting the blessing.  

There is one other “amen” I should mention. It the “amen” of relief that a congregation says after the rabbi concludes a sermon that has gone on a bit too long. To that, let us say. 

AMEN!