Listening (Parasha Haazinu)

 

The Book of Deuteronomy is full of words related to “hearing”. The most famous verse in the Five Books of Moses is related to the sense of hearing –“Hear O Israel, the Lord our G-d, the Lord is One.” There are many other references to “hearing” or “listening” in the Book of Deuteronomy, including the first verse in this week’s parasha – Haazinu hashamayim va-adabera; tishmah ha-aretz imre  fi, “Give ear O heavens, let me speak/Let the earth hear the words I utter”.  Where “seeing” or “appearing” is the most prominent of the five senses in the Book of Genesis, “hearing” or listening is the most prominent of the five senses in the Book of Deuteronomy.

Note that in this opening verse the poet uses two different words for “listen”.  The first word,  האזינו is translated as “Give ear”. The translation is well chosen because the root of this word is אזן from which the word אוזניים or “ears'' is also derived. The word for “listen” in the second part of the verse is תשׁמע related to the familiar word שׁמע as in “Hear O Israel”....... שׁמע ישׂראל

The opening verse of this parasha also provides a good example of what is called “parallelism” in Biblical poetry. Instead of rhyming the words at the end of verses, Biblical poets match the ideas expressed in two phrases of the same verse, using different words. In the first phrase of the opening verse of our parasha, Moses asks the heavens to allow him to speak; in the second phrase he implores the earth to hear his words. Thus the biblical poet achieves a symmetry and balance in the poem's verses, without resorting to rhyme. Ideas are rhymed, in a manner of speaking,  instead of words. 

 I am sure we have all had the experience of talking to someone  and feeling that the other person was not really listening. This is especially true when it comes to family life. A wife asks her husband, “Would you please go shopping for me? Buy one carton of milk, and if they have eggs, get six.”

A short time later the husband returns with six cartons of milk!

His wife was beside herself. “Why on earth did you buy six cartons of milk?

He replied, “They had eggs!”  

 You see, good communication is not as easy as it sounds. Misunderstandings can happen easily. One really has to pay attention and be focused on what is being said.

In the Book of Exodus, we are told that G-d speaks to Moses “Panim el Panim” or “Face to Face”. The Torah then explains that this is how friends speak to one another. This represents the level of intimacy that Moses experienced with G-d. Friends look each other in the eye when they speak, so that they can truly listen to each other, focusing their attention on one another’s words. Yet how often do we listen with one ear while our eyes and our other ear are on a computer screen or television? Do we listen with our eyes as well as our ears? 

Or consider this story told by Anthony de Mello in his book The Heart of the Enlightened.  A family settled down for dinner at a restaurant. The waitress first took the order of the adults, then turned to the seven year old. “What will you have?” she asked.

The boy looked around the table timidly and said, “I would like to have a hot dog.”

Before the waitress could write down the order, the mother interrupted. “No hot dogs,” she said, “Get him a steak with mashed potatoes and carrots.”

The waitress ignored her. “Do you want ketchup or mustard on your hot dog?” she asked the boy.

“Ketchup.”

“Coming up in a minute,” said the waitress as she started for the kitchen.

There was a stunned silence when she left. Finally the boy looked at everyone present and said, “Know what? She thinks I’m real!”

Listening to one another is perhaps the most important capacity that we can develop in our lives. To make a person feel they are truly heard is a great gift. To be ignored, to feel like what you say does not  matter, makes one feel invisible and therefore be rendered “unreal”. Yet each and every one of us is of supreme importance and deserve our complete attention! The British writer and theologian C.S. Lewis wrote, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilisations – these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit.” In other words, we should remember that we are all created in the image of G-d, and relate to one another “Panim el Panim”-- face-to-face and eye-to-eye -- showing the good will, love and closeness with another that G-d showed when G-d spoke to Moses.

When someone listens to us we feel respected and human.  Yet I worry that these days we do a great deal more talking at one another than listening to one another. With our social media, our Facebook and Twitter, we grow increasingly sophisticated about sharing our thoughts, feelings and experiences – but is anybody really listening?

Shabbat Shalom

Photo by saeed karimi on Unsplash

 

Yom Kippur am 5782 "Our Parents our Teachers"

 

This morning I am going to give a sermon on something I have never given a sermon on before. Or  I am going to give a sermon on the meaning of our Yizkor service. I realize that many of you still have both parents living, and therefore do not recite Yizkor. But please,  bear with me! There is something in this sermon for you as well.

When I was growing up,  the largest crowds in my synagogue were, by far,  for the Yizkor service on Yom Kippur. In those days,  like now, one had to be a member of the synagogue to get  a ticket for the High Holidays. But for the Yizkor service, members  whose parents were alive, and therefore not saying Yizkor, would give up their seats in the sanctuary so those who were saying Yizkor but did not have a ticket could take their places. In those days, as in ours, one of a rabbi's most important duties was to comfort the bereaved and honor the memory of the dead. It was said that a rabbi had to master the “Three Whys” of Jewish life -- Yitgadal, Yarhzeit, and Yizkor! 

The Talmud lists nine ways in which mourning for a parent is different from mourning for a sibling or for a  spouse, or  for a child.   Of the nineThere are two that are particularly  relevant for us today.
When mourning for  a sibling, a spouse or a child , a person may cut his hair or shave after 30 days. When mourning for a parent, he may not do so until his friends say, “You need a haircut!” or “You need to cut that beard!” 

When mourning for others, a person may attend a celebratory event  after 30 days. When mourning for a parent, the mourner must refrain from attending such an event  until 12 months have passed.

Sometime during the Middle Ages  the rabbis instituted the recitation of the mourner’s kaddish for those who lost a sibling,  a spouse, a parent  or  a child. For a parent we recite the kaddish for 11 months following the death. For all others, we recite the kaddish for one month. 

Clearly the mourning requirements for a parent are not lengthier or more intense because the pain is greater upon losing a parent. We understand that the grief we experience upon losing a child, the  grief  we feel upon losing a spouse, or the  grief  we feel upon losing a sibling who dies before their time can be more intense, more heart wrenching and more excruciating  than the grief we feel for a parent who dies after having lived a long life. Yet our  Jewish tradition singles out special respect to be shown for parents. The Ten Commandments specify that we should honor our parents. The Torah threatens death for anyone who curses or strikes their parents. And, as we have seen, the Talmud requires special mourning rites for parents that are not required for others close to us. This special quality of our relationship with our parents is carried over in the text of our Yizkor service today. 

This morning I want to analyze this traditional text with you.. The various remembrances in our Yizkor book -- remembering our fathers, our mothers, our spouses, our siblings and our friends and relatives -- begin with the same phrase. “Yizkor Elokim Nishmat” -- May G-d remember the soul of…..” What first strikes us is the mention of G-d in this formula -- “May G-d remember”! We do not begin with “I hereby remember”... We do not begin, “I rise today to remember ''. We are asking G-d to remember! We are acknowledging the Creator. But why do we ask G-d to remember? What do we ask G-d to remember? 

The key to the answer to these questions are found   in the text of the Hebrew, which, for some reason, is not translated in our booklet. It is not a minor omission of translation. In fact, I would say there is a major omission in the translation and a major error of commission. Something left out that should be included, and something added that should have been left out.  Let me explain. The English translation says “May G-d remember the soul of my beloved”…… and continues with the appropriate person we are remembering -- father, mother, brother, sister, husband, wife, friend. That is not what the Hebrew says. The Hebrew says, “Yizkor Elohim nishmat Avi MORI; Yizor Elohim nishmat Imi MORATI -- May G-d remember the soul of my father, MY TEACHER; May G-d remember the soul of my mother, MY TEACHER. It does not say “My DEAR father” or “My BELOVED father”. It does not say “My DEAR mother”  or “My BELOVED Mother”. It says “My father, MY TEACHER,”  “My mother, MY TEACHER.” Period. 

In the words of the famous  song, “What’s Love Got to do with It?” The Torah never commands us to love our parents! The Talmud doesn’t teach us to love our parents! Our tradition teaches that we should respect our parents. We should honor our parents. We should even fear our parents. After all, our parents gave us life. They fed us,  sheltered us, they protected us, they raised us.  They educated us and transmitted Jewish values to us. In the eyes of our tradition,  We owe them a special debt that we owe nobody else.  

The author Steve Goodier tells the following story about a parent as a teacher:  A young school teacher had a dream that an angel appeared to him and said, "You will be given a child who will grow up to become a world leader. How will you prepare her? How will you challenge her intelligence? How will you help her grow in confidence? In short, what kind of education will you provide that she can become one of the world's truly GREAT leaders?"

The young teacher awoke in a cold sweat. It had never occurred to him before -- any ONE of his present or future students could be the person described in his dream. How would he prepare them to rise to ANY POSITION to which they may aspire? 

This student would need experience as well as instruction. She would need to know how to solve problems of all kinds. She would need to become knowledgeable, but more than that. She would also need strong values  to stand firm   and  to develop a strong  character. She would need self-assurance as well as the ability to listen well and work with others. 

 This realization made the young educator think differently about every young person who walked through his classroom door.   Every pupil became, for him, a future world leader. He saw each one, not as they were, but as they could be. He expected the best from his students, yet tempered it with gentleness. He taught each one as if the future of the world depended on his instruction.

After many years, a woman he knew rose to a position of world prominence. He realized that she must surely have been the girl described in his dream. Only she was not one of his students – she was his daughter. For all the various teachers in her life, her father was the best.

Some parents go to university, they may get a teaching degree and become very skilled at teaching. Other parents might not have the same opportunity to study, yet we call them both teachers! Of course all parents are teachers of their children. A child looks very closely at their parents. Children  not only listen to what  their  parents say, they  very closely observe what their  parents do. Children also learn a great deal from their parents by seeing what they do not do. 

Life often turns out different from this story about the teacher and his daughter. Consider this excerpt from an article in the online magazine “Kveller” written by a woman named Heli Wiener.

I was estranged from my biological father for 12 years before he died. My parents got divorced when I was 8 years old. At that tender age, my dad actually sat me down to privately discuss their divorce. He referenced famous celebrities who had broken up and got remarried. He told me he was going to “get better” (my father had been battling drug and alcohol addiction) and come back to our family.

I believed him. Like a little lost puppy, I waited until I finally had my closure at 20, when he died. I was never able to say goodbye or explain what his leaving had done to me.

She continues: Yizkor talks about the deceased being our teacher, and in most circumstances, a father is. It also talks about this man being righteous. Given the fact that I spent the majority of my life learning lessons with no help from my father, he didn’t feel very righteous to me. The truth was that my father hadn’t been in my life for too long to remember, and now I was forced to face that being the end of our story. That alone was the painful part—his death was just the icing on the cake.

Truth be told, and given the fact we are all flawed human beings there is no such thing as a parent who is a good teacher all of the time. Some parents, weighed down by all kinds of stresses, preoccupations or illness, might neglect some or most of their parental responsibilities. If they do not provide guidance, if they don’t teach their children values about how to take care of themselves, how to treat others, how to show compassion, tolerance, respect and acceptance, one might say that they have failed as teachers. They have not fulfilled their role as teachers to their children.  Even  when  a parent takes their role as a teacher seriously, they too may have failed, at times, as teachers to their children. Maybe they were too heavy handed at times.  Maybe they were too rigid or too critical, or maybe they were over-protective, or inattentive and neglectful at times.   Sigmund Freud called “parenting” one of the two impossible professions, along with governing a nation. 

This is the reason our Yizkor prayer does not begin with the words, “I remember my father, my teacher”, or “I remember my mother, my teacher”. Instead, we ask G-d to remember them -- so as  to forgive them! For according to our tradition, it is not only the living who are in need of forgiveness. The dead are also in need of forgiveness. The rabbis teach that the day is called “Yom Ha-Kippurim” -- using the plural form in the Hebrew -- because the day atones for both the living and the dead. So Yizkor is not just an exercise in remembering. It is not just a time to evoke the memory of our mother and our father. It is that, but it is more! In reciting Yizkor, we remember our parents and we ask G-d to remember and to  forgive our mothers and our fathers, who at times did not teach us what we needed to know, who did not act as the role models that we needed, who sometimes let us down, who sometimes failed us.  

When our parents are gone, they continue to live within us. Our parents molded, shaped and guided our development. So when we recite Yizkor, we remember our parents who influenced us and helped to make us who we are today. And we ask G-d to remember our parents, and forgive them, for none of our parents were perfect, they all had flaws, they all made mistakes, they were human beings as we are. 

Perhaps in asking G-d to forgive our parents, we can take the first steps to forgiving them ourselves.

Gmar Chatima Tovah

Photo by Element5 Digital on Unsplash

Kol Nidre Sermon 5782 "I Place God Before Me at all Times"

 

A story is told of a man who stopped attending his usual synagogue and was now frequenting a minyan in another synagogue.   One day he happened to  bump into  the Rabbi of his previous synagogue, and the rabbi asked him where he  was praying these days. The man answered: “I am praying at a small minyan led by Rabbi Cohen.”

 The rabbi was stunned. “Why would you want to pray there with that rabbi?  I am a much better orator, I am more famous, I have a much larger following.”

The man replied: “Yes, but in my new synagogue the rabbi has taught me to read minds.”

The rabbi was surprised. “Alright, then, read my mind.”

The man said: “You are thinking of the verse in Psalms, ‘I have set the Lord  before me at all times.’”

“You are wrong,” said the rabbi, “I was not thinking about that verse at all.”

The man replied: “Yes, I knew that, and that’s why I’ve moved to the other synagogue. The rabbi there is always thinking of this verse.”

Indeed, the authentically spiritual person is always striving to be mindful of G-d’s presence throughout his or her day. Perhaps this is the reason that this verse from Psalm 16 is written above the ark in many synagogues.  “Shiviti Adonai Lenegdi Tamid” -- “I have set the Lord before me at all times.” 

There are a number of interpretations of this verse from Psalms. Some believe it means we are being asked to contemplate Divine Oneness at all times. Others think it means we are to keep in mind that everything we see in the natural world, every aspect of reality, is, in effect, an expression of the Divine Name.  Still others understand the verse to mean that we should  meditate on the letters of the Divine Name of G-d, Yu- Hey-Vav-Hey, at all times. 

If we do the latter -- if we meditate on the Divine Name -- what do we learn? This four letter name of G-d, consisting of the letters “Yud, Hey. Vav Hey,” is called the Tetragrammaton. When rearranged, these letters form  the primary words used to express “time'' in Hebrew. “Haya” means  was; Hoveh -means  is; and “Yiheye” -- means will be. You may recognize these words from the prayer Adon Olam -- Hu Haya, hu hoveh, vehu yiyeh betifarah.  This teaches that G-d is present in every moment in time. G-d is present beyond time. 

When Moses heard the name “YHVH” at the burning bush, he did not hear the word “Adonai” as we pronounce it. He did not hear the name “Jehovah” as German scholars pronounced the tetragrammaton. He did not hear the name “Yahweh” as is taught in our public school social studies curriculum. As Rabbi Arthur Waskow writes, “If one tries to pronounce it, what comes is simply a Breath. Its brilliance as a Name of God is that it alone, Breathing alone, is “spoken” in every human tongue….. And not only is it a language of humans but also of all forms of life --- grasses, trees, frogs, birds, and leopards  .………..As the Siddur teaches, “Nishmat kol chai tivarekh et-shimcha” — The Breath of all life praises your Name,” because the Name [of G-d] is the Breath of all life. In that phrase, “our God” does not mean the Jews’ God, nor the humans’ God, but the God of all living, breathing beings”.

    The  rabbis of the Talmud who taught us to pronounce this name of G-d, this breath-name -- when we read it in our prayer books or study it in our texts --  as “Adonai”. This means, “my Lord”. Many Jewish people today use the term “Ha-shem”,  when referring to G-d. “Ha-shem” means “The Name”. Others refer to G-d as “HaKodosh Baruch Hu '' when speaking,  meaning, “The Holy Blessed One”. But these are circumlocutions,  and substitutions for the real Name of G-d, which is considered too sacred to pronounce -- IF we knew how to pronounce it! 

Moses, who heard the name pronounced at the burning bush, passed the pronunciation of G-d’s name down to Aaron the High Priest, his brother. And Aaron’s family passed it down through the generations of High priests that were in charge of worship in the Temple in Jerusalem. For it was during the sacrificial rites of the Ancient Temple, during the ritual confession on Yom Kippur, and Yom Kippur alone, that the Name of G-d was uttered by the High Priest. On that day the High Priest made confessions three times, humbling himself before G-d and asking for forgiveness- first for his own sins and the sins  of  his household, then for the sins of his fellow priests, and then for the sins of the entire people of Israel. When the High Priest pronounced the “shem meforash”, the explicit Name of G-d, all of the people at the Temple in Jerusalem would hear it and would bow and prostrate themselves and calling out “Barukh Shem Kvod Malkuto Le-olam Vaed”- praised be G-d’s glorious sovereignty forever.``

However, with the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in the year 70 CE brought to an end the sacrificial system of worship. With a service no longer taking place in the Temple on Yom Kippur, the pronunciation of “The Name” was eventually lost. Today, no one knows for certain how to pronounce the Name.

Let’s continue to meditate and reflect on this four letter name of G-d. The first letter of the Name of G-d, Yud, has the numerical equivalent of “ten”. This corresponds to the date of Yom Kippur, the 10th of Tishre, as well as the ten days of repentance. Moses also brought down the 10 commandments from Mt. Sinai on Yom Kippur. In Kabbalah, there are ten creative forces, or sefirot, that stand between G-d and our world.  It is through these forces that G-d rules the universe, and it is by influencing them, through the practice of mitzvot, that human beings can precipitate G-d’s blessings to our world from G-d’s abode above.

The second letter, “Hey” has the numerical equivalent of “five”. This corresponds to the five prayer services on Yom Kippur. On weekdays we have three services, on Shabbat and holidays, four. Only on Yom Kippur do we have a fifth service of the day, the Neilah service . Kabbalistically, the letter hey, five, represents the 5 levels of soul of which the fifth level, or yechida is the highest one.   By this we mean that the soul, our truest or essential self, is more accessible on Yom Kippur than on any other day of the year. 

The third letter, vav, has the numerical equivalent of “six”. This corresponds to the number of divisions in the Torah reading on Yom Kippur morning.  In Kabbalah, this number represents the six emotional attributes that exist within each of us -- anger, disgust, fear, happiness, sadness, and surprise. On Yom Kippur we ask forgiveness, from G-d and our fellow human beings,  for our mistakes and flaws related to these six emotions. 

The final letter of G-d’s name, “hey”, corresponds to five. This represents the five prohibitions of Yom Kippur -- eating, drinking, bathing, wearing leather shoes, and   sexual  relations. 

Why these five restrictions? Many answers have been put forth, including “because the Torah says so.” But I think these restrictions are there to focus us on the task at hand. Although we cannot pronounce the name -- it is too holy-- we know the name, we can stand before the Name, and thus we can address G-d intimately -- by name, as it were. With this great privilege comes responsibility. No one can ask forgiveness on our behalf from G-d but us. No one can be an agent for us in asking forgiveness from our fellow. Repentance is in our own hands. 

Our services are integral in setting the mood and tone for repentance. Our liturgy can be an excellent guide in our process of teshuvah. The rabbi and the cantor and the choir can inspire self-reflection through their words and music. But on Yom Kippur, each and every one of us stands before G-d, alone, as individuals, to acknowledge our sins and ask forgiveness. Serious business! 

Consider this parable: A person tries to cut down a tree with a dull edged saw. He works very hard, but makes little progress. A passerby sees this and asks, “Why don’t you sharpen your saw?” The person responds, “I don’t have time. I can’t stop working. I have to cut down this tree”. The passerby says, “But if you would stop working for a few minutes to sharpen your saw, you would actually save time and effort, and you would be better able to accomplish your goal!” The person replies, “No, I don’t have time to stop working. I must keep on sawing.”

The person in this parable represents us. We have the right tools to look at our lives and recognize where we need to improve, but those tools are too dull. We spend a great deal of energy trying to change, but we are not getting the results we want because we are using the same blunt instruments.  We need to stop and think more clearly about our goals and how we are going to achieve them. Yom Kippur is a day when we take the time to sharpen ourselves spiritually. On Yom Kippur we cast away the toothless saw that we are using to do our spiritual work. We sharpen ourselves spiritually through fasting, through abstaining from pleasures,  through forgoing luxuries symbolized by leather shoes. Once in this state we can better face our limitations, acknowledge our wrongdoings, atone for our transgressions and return to our spiritual core. 

If, instead, we allow ourselves to check our email, see what is on Netflix, pause to have a snack, or do some shopping online we will lose our focus and squander the opportunity to accomplish the spiritual work that this day demands of us. 

We live in a do-it-yourself world. We go on YouTube to learn how to fix a leaky faucet, put up our own shelving or lay down a tile floor. We bank online, do our own investing and are more involved in our own health care. The same do-it-yourself attitude needs to be applied to repentance in particular and to Judaism in general. 

We may not all be like Rabbi Cohen in the story I told at the beginning of this sermon, always thinking of G-d, either directly or in the back of our minds. But let us strive to be more like Rabbi Cohen on this day, on Yom Kippur, the Holiest Day of the Jewish year. On this day, this one day of the year -- HaYom! -- a day when we do not eat or drink, a day when we abstain from pleasures, a day when we do not work -- on this day let us all try to put our relationship with G-d front and center and to set G-d before us at all times.  

Gmar Chatimah Tovah

May You Be Sealed in the Book of Life for the coming year.

Rosh Hashanah Sermon on Israel (Day 1)

 

When I became your Rabbi 13 years ago, I was asked by a congregant about my goals.  I answered that one of my goals was to help Congregation Beth Shalom develop a closer relationship with Israel.  As a University Junior I had been a student at the One Year Program at Hebrew University in Jerusalem and Israel became the centerpiece of my Jewish identity.  I longed to return. It took me 33 years before I was able to take my second trip to Israel when I had the opportunity to study at the Shalom Hartman Institute’s Rabbinic Torah Study Seminar in Jerusalem in 2006. Since becoming your Rabbi I have traveled to Israel fifteen times, including leading several invaluable rich and transformative  congregational trips. Naturally I am aware that many of you must have visited Israel on your own.    Many of our students have visited Israel through organized trips like Taam Yisrael for eighth graders or Birthright for young adults. We have had congregants who have lived in Israel for extended periods of time, and some have made aliyah to Israel. We have studied about Israel through the Hartman program, through the Melton program and in the Thursday morning Study Group. In addition, we have had a series of guest speakers who have further enhanced and contributed to our knowledge of Israel. Also, for the past several years adults have been able to study and learn modern Hebrew through our Adult Education Program.  From where I stand I would say that we as a congregation have become more inquisitive and more knowledgeable, more understanding and more connected as well as more cognizant and closer to Israel 

 

Yet, American Jewry has been drifting away from Israel, particularly when it comes to our younger generation of Jews. The recent Pew Study of American Jewry found that Twenty-seven percent -- about one quarter of those between 18 and 29 say caring about Israel is not important to them, compared with 8% of those over 65 who say the same.  Support for boycotting Israel — at 13% — is nearly double in that age group compared to older generations. 25% of American Jews agree that Israel is an “Apartheid State”. 

 

This rather  alarming and painful situation has been hard,  both for those of us who love Israel in the United States and for Israelis. Ron Dermer, former Israeli ambassador to the United States, caused a bit of a kerfuffle back in May when he said that Israel would be better off prioritizing building relationships with American evangelicals than with the American Jewish community. He opined that the backbone of Israel’s support in the United States is Evangelical Christians, both because they far outnumber Jews in the United States and because of their -- and here I quote -- “passionate and unequivocal support for Israel”. American Jews, he added are - quote -- “Disproportionately among our critics”. 

 

 Rabbi Daniel Gordis writes in his 2018 book, Divided We Stand, that American Jewry’’s ambivalence toward Israel is not only about what Israel does, but, more fundamentally, it is related to what Israel is. Based on what Rabbi Gordis postulates  in this book, I want to outline three reasons that can help us understand the ambivalent, sometimes turbulent and often confusing  relationship between American Jews and Israel.

 

First, we need to recognize that Israel's purpose and mission is fundamentally different from that of the United States.

Second, we need to understand that Israeli Jews and American Jews have very different ideas about Jewish identity.

Third, we need to acknowledge how our hopes and expectations of Israel to be “a light unto the nations” in the words of the prophet Isaiah, have not been fully realized, and how painful that is for us. 

 

Point number one: Mission and purpose: 

Israel is a Jewish State created for Jews. And the United States?   

 

Engraved on the base of the Statue of Liberty, the iconic symbol of America, is a poem by the American Jew, Emma Lazuras. In part, it reads

From her beacon-hand/ Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore; Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me; I lift my lamp before the golden door.” 

The United States, according to this poem, has a mission to welcome all the people in the world. We are, as we say in Yiddish, Die Goldene Medina, a beacon of hope, a land where dreams come true. Throughout American history, at times, some have been more welcome than others. But as an ideal, as an aspiration, and at times as a  reality, people from  around the world,  of all religions, of all races, of all ethnicities,  have been  welcome to our shores. 

 

Israel’s mission is different. The Balfour Declaration of 1917 favors the establishment of “a national home for the Jewish people” in British ruled Palestine. The United Nations Partition agreement of 1947 divided the British Mandate into two states, one Jewish and one Arab. Unlike the United States, Israel was conceived as a particular land for a particular people. 

Like the United States, Israel is committed to equal rights for all. Non- Jews may be citizens and have equal rights under the law. However, in order for Israel to remain a Jewish State for the Jewish people, a significant majority of the population must be and remain Jewish. When, as demographers tell us, the United States has a majority minority population by 2046, it will be in keeping with our motto and our mission, E pluribus unum, “Out of many- one”. We are a country of peoples from all over the world, joined together to form one nation, the United States of America.  If, on the other hand, Jews cease to be the majority of the population in Israel by 2046, the Zionist dream -- the dream of Jewish self-determination, “to live as a free people in our own land” in the words of HaTikvah -- would have failed. This is why there must eventually be a two-state solution, with the Jewish State and a Palestinian state living side by side in peace. In one, binational state, Arabs would outnumber Jews, thus making Jews, once again, a vulnerable minority in a majority, Muslim land. That has proven too risky and dangerous in the past.

 

Point number 2 -- Jewish identity

Israelis Jews and American Jews also view their Jewishness differently. In 1955, American intellectual and political scholar Will Herberg published a book with the title Catholic Protestant Jew. In it he argued that America was “a three-religion country” and that people no longer identified themselves by their ethnicity, but rather by the religious community to which they belonged. In America, Judaism is a religion. In Israel, Judaism is an ethnicity, a nationality. In Israel You are an Israeli Jew or an Israeli Arab. 

 

This difference in understanding our respective identities plays out in a number of ways.  For instance, the average Israeli has very little understanding of the differences among Reform, Conservative and Orthodox Judaism in the United States. Therefore, when American Jews advocate for equal standing in the public sphere for Conservative and Reform Judaism in Israel, most Israelis have little idea of what we are talking about. When American Jews criticize Israel for its lack of religious pluralism, Israelis counter that their society is an incredibly pluralistic one. There are secular people who eat shrimp on Shabbas, there are Hassidim who follow all the mitzvot, there are communities from North Africa, Yemen, France and South America who have their own synagogues and follow their own particular rituals. How much more pluralistic, how much more tolerant, how much more accepting of differences, does Israel have to be, they ask? Some progressive Israelis may be sympathetic to the Women of the Wall, a group that seeks to achieve the right for women to wear prayer shawls, pray and read from the Torah collectively and out loud at the Western Wall (Kotel) in Jerusalem. But Israeli progressives’ energies are primarily directed toward issues of foreign policy and social equality, not toward whether women can bring a Torah to the Western Wall. 

Point 3 -- Myth versus reality

A third factor contributing to the American Jewish drift away from Israel is the myth of Israel coming into conflict with the reality of everyday life. Let me explain!  My generation grew up in the aftermath of Israel’s War for Independence in 1948……. As we know in that war   a geographically tiny Israel fought for her life and survived the onslaught of five Arab armies.  It was without question a costly but heroic victory. Israel was poor in those years, but determinedly plucky. My generation experienced the lightning victory of the Six Day War, the remarkable rescue at Entebbe, the harrowing vulnerability of the 1973 War with Egypt. But statecraft is messy business, politics requires compromises, and the reality of surviving in a hostile region forced successive Israeli governments to make difficult decisions that, at times, led to questionable decisions and actions that are difficult to defend.

 

Some of these decisions and actions, in turn, have led others to question Israel’s very right to exist as a nation. 

Without taking into account the complexities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, campaigns have been launched that equate Israeli treatment of Palestinians with the apartheid policies of South Africa in the mid-20th century. They demand divestment of Israeli companies from university, church, municipal, union and other portfolios. They demand the boycott of Israeli products, professionals, professional associations, academic institutions, and artistic performances. They  demonize Israel and seek to isolate Israel from the rest of the nations of the world. They assign one-sided blame to Israel, and, by association, supporters of Israel, for the conflict. They demand that Israel fix the problem without asking anything in return from Palestinians or other Arab states, who are consistently described as powerless victims of Israel. 

 

This “anti-zionism” is increasingly difficult to distinguish from anti-semitism, and, in fact there have been significant increases in verbal and physical attacks against Jews in the West. This has led Israeli politician and intellectual Einat Wilff to suspect that “it’s not that attacks on Jews in the West are the unfortunate and unintended consequence of the persistent demonization of Israel, but rather the demonization of the Jewish state is undertaken so as to re-legitimize attacks on Jews in the West.” In other words, Israeli actions are not the cause or precipitant of expressions of anti-semitism in the West; they are an excuse for expressions of anti-semitism in the West.

 

 Scholar and Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, one of the most influential thinkers in contemporary Jewish life, writes, “The Jewish state—no matter how it strives—is incapable of being ethically without blemish. All exercises of power by all human entities are inescapably flawed. Therefore, Israel’s right to exist cannot depend on its meeting the perfection standard of ethics……….. If the Jewish state’s fate is conditioned on its meeting a certain standard of moral excellence—and other nations not so—then this is a double standard that endangers Israel. …..unrealistic expectations and conditioned support for its right to existence are unfair and immoral.” 

My main message for you this morning is, please, don’t give up on Israel. It is not the perfect country that we would wish for -- but no country is perfect. Israel does not always make us proud; it sometimes makes us sad and often exasperates us.   We are critical of the lack of separation of church and state resulting in the stranglehold that the Haredi community has over lifecycle affairs in Israel. We are hurt by the dismissive attitude taken by Israeli religious authorities to American expressions of our Jewish faith. We are frustrated by the seemingly endless wars, by the settlements in Judea and Samaria and by the lack of progress on the Palestinian front. Our response, however, should not be to wash our hands of Israel, to turn our backs on the Jewish State. Rather, as partners with God, we American Jews must redouble our efforts to strengthen Israel, even when her actions elicit conflicting feelings in us.  Part of that effort is to encourage Israel to treat all her citizens, Jewish and Arab, and her neighbors, including the Palestinians, with dignity, with decency and with respect. We must convince Israel that there is more than one expression of Judaism, and that Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist and other formulations of Judaism need to be recognized, accepted and legitimized. Finally we must  use our influence as American citizens to assure that the United States remains a reliable -- and understanding -- ally on the world stage. 

Shana Tova

Photo by Taylor Brandon on Unsplash

Sermon for Rosh Hashanah Eve 5782

 

 

As most of you may know, ten days ago I announced my retirement as Rabbi of  Congregation Beth Shalom effective June, 2023. In making this decision I am reminded of the parent who sends a note to explain her son's tardiness for kindergarten. “Please excuse Johnny for being late for school this morning. Nine o’clock came sooner than expected.” 

 

We may feel that my retirement from Congregation Beth Shalom comes “sooner than expected” but in fact it is coming at the right time. When I arrived at CBS in 2008 I  was the fourth rabbi of the synagogue in eight years.  Although the synagogue was thriving in terms of numbers, it was also struggling to maintain consistent leadership, a sense of direction and stability.  I hope, if anything, I have provided that. 

 

I am reminded, as well, about the first time I made such an announcement to a previous synagogue. Before I was ordained as a Rabbi, and during my student years at seminary, I had a pulpit for three years at a small synagogue in Holyoke, Massachusetts. The synagogue had hoped I would stay on after I was ordained. However, I decided to accept a position at a different synagogue in a larger Jewish community nearby. Over the three years that I was in Holyoke, I became very close with the congregation. When I told them that I would be moving on, they were disappointed, even a bit angry. One of the members, a man in his late eighties, looked at me sadly and said, “And we thought you cared about us!” 

 

Of course, I did care about them, I reassured him, but I needed to think about myself, my future and the future of my family. So, I had to make the painful decision to leave them and move on, a decision that eventually brought me here.  I want to assure all of you that even though I am leaving as your rabbi, I care about you. Being your rabbi has meant that every day one or more of you, in ways small and large, have touched my heart. I hope that on occasion I may have provided a bit of that uplift for you too.

 

Naturally I am not finished with my work here. I have two more years with you, but those two years, as we  know, will fly by, as have the previous thirteen!  However, it was necessary to announce my retirement now in order that as a congregation you can plan for your future. If needed I will be available to think through those plans with you.

 

 Rosh Hashanah is a time to reflect on the past, both as individuals and as a community. What a year the world has had!   The Covid 19 pandemic has not  only shaken all institutions throughout the world but it has led to a  worldwide crisis in every synagogue, every church, every mosque. The crisis has been felt by every individual, in  every home, in every family. These tumultuous times have brought about enormous levels of stress, of anguish and of loss. As one wag put it, these past 18 months have been like experiencing the flu pandemic of 1918, the economic instability of 1919 and the political turmoil of 1968 all rolled into one!

 

Last Rosh Hashanah was the first Rosh Hashanah in history where every Jew, wherever they lived in the world, stayed home for the holiday. Instead of crowding into synagogues, we watched services on our computers. Instead of gathering with family and friends to enjoy a festival meal we ate alone.  We were instructed to practice “social distancing”. One of our congregants commented that “social distancing” was the opposite of Judaism.

 

This New Year brings a different kind of stress. We thought it would be over by now, but we are still living our lives thinking about, worrying about, and planning around the pandemic. There have been tragic losses, and there are many kinds of grief being exhibited.  Grieving over loved ones, but also grieving over opportunities lost, a lifestyle lost, and a concern that we don’t know what post-pandemic will look like.

 

 We often don’t appreciate what we have until we are in danger of losing it. The writer Mitch Albom, who became famous with the publication of his book Tuesdays with Morrie, published another book, Have a Little Faith.  In it, he returns to the Jewish community of his childhood in New Jersey.  He writes about coming to terms with all he had left behind and lost.  His plans as a young man – to become 'a citizen of the world' -- had largely come true, he writes.  He had friends in different time zones. He'd been published in foreign languages. He had lived all over the world.

 

He writes, "You can touch everything and be connected to nothing. I knew airports better than local neighborhoods.  I knew more names in other area codes than I did on my block."  Most of his relationships, he writes, were through the workplace.  Then he thought about workplace friends who were fired or had quit due to illness.  "Who comforted them?" he wonders, "Where did they go? Not to me. Not to their former bosses."

 

Often, he concludes, they were helped and supported by their church or synagogue communities. "Members took up collections. They cooked meals. They gave money to pay bills. They did it with love, empathy and knowledge that it was part of the supportive undercarriage of a "sacred community", like the one I guess I once belonged to, even if I didn't realize it."

 

We too often do not realize what we have in our sacred community. We take it for granted or feel disappointed by its shortcomings. We often notice what is missing rather than what is there. 

 

When the Coronavirus struck 18 months ago, we as a sacred community faced quite a challenge. How were we to maintain synagogue life without being able to come together in the temple? How do we make “social distancing” compatible with Jewish communal life?  It was not only an issue of gathering for worship. The very undercarriage of our community had been pulled from us by the virus. Loved ones died alone in hospital beds, their families unable to be with them in their final moments! How would our community be there for them in their grief and despair? Where before the pandemic hundreds of people might attend a funeral, families now had to bury their dead practically alone. How were we to console the mourner when we could not go to their home for shiva?  How could we help the bar and bat mitzvah families -- families  that had been looking forward to a synagogue packed with family and friends --  experience the holiness of a bar or bat mitzvah from the confines of their home with only the immediate family present?  How were we going to educate our children when they could not gather in the classroom with their teachers? All of this, and more, against a background where parents were worried about losing their jobs, and those who had jobs had to learn a whole new way of working. Adult children worried about their elderly parents, the most vulnerable of the population. And we all dreaded catching Covid, becoming seriously ill and even  dying. 

 

Looking back, the challenges to continuing community life were overwhelming and disorienting.  It reminds me of the parable Rabbi Hayim of Tzanz used to tell:  A man, wandering in the forest for several days, finally encountered another. He called out: "Brother, show me the way out of this forest." The man replied, "Brother, I, too, am lost. I can only tell you this. The ways I have tried have led nowhere; they have only led me astray. Take my hand and let us search for the way together." This is what we did. In the beginning, we were all lost and confused. Yet, we held one another’s hand, and we found our way through this together. So, we all deserve a “yasher koach”!  All of you stepped up. You were heroic this year. Just look at what we have accomplished. We moved our entire synagogue online with no notice. We learned how to mute and unmute ourselves (well, some of us are still learning). We taught, we sang, we consoled, we prayed -- as a community -- while being physically separated. What we did was unprecedented in Jewish history. We not only survived -- we affirmed our values, we supported each other, we found a way, we thrived. For all of this I am profoundly grateful to every single one of you and I want to thank you all. 

 

It was, and continues to be, challenging and extremely difficult work. 

I also want to apologize as well. There were times in this process, when we were reinventing ourselves as a synagogue, that I was not as patient with you as I should have been. There were times when I did not listen as I should have. There were times when I too hastily and abruptly dismissed your suggestions,  you causing you to not feel respected or heard. For this I am deeply sorry. 

 

People sometimes ask me, “Rabbi, when are we going back to ‘normal’?” My answer to you is that we are never going back to “normal”. We will never go back to the way things were before this pandemic. We have been through, and are still going through, the defining crisis of this generation. When the world experiences something like this, we are changed in a myriad of ways, often for good. The ways we practice Judaism, the ways we experience “community”, the ways we learn and the ways we teach are already different because of this pandemic. Some of the old ways we will miss, some of the new ways we will welcome, but of one thing I am certain -- Judaism will adapt to whatever the future will bring because throughout our long and noble history the Jewish People have always met the challenges of “new normals”. When the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed and our People lost the way we worshipped, we adapted and met the challenge. When we lived in the diaspora, when we were oppressed and vilified, when we were threatened with conversion or expulsion or death, we met the challenge. When nations more powerful than we rose to destroy us, we met the challenge. When we returned to Palestine to reclaim our ancestral homeland, we met the challenge. Each and every time, we adapted, we changed, we met the challenge. We belong to a people that does not despair, that it is relentless in its determination to move forward, to overcome hardships, to endure and to contribute to the world.

 

These troubled times present their own unique difficulties and challenges and call for novel, original and fresh responses. Our sages teach that the ram's horn we blow on Rosh HaShana must be kafuf (bent) to reflect our own bodies bent over in grief.  The shevarim (the broken blasts of the shofar) are meant to echo the sound of our own tears. Yet they are always surrounded by tekiah (whole sounds). This teaches us that even though our hearts have been broken we can be whole again and, in fact, even more complete for having experienced that brokenness.

Shana Tova

Photo by Igal Ness on Unsplash