RH Day 1 Opening Our Eyes

Opening Our Eyes

 

I've been thinking about how the sense of sight, the sense of seeing, plays such a prominent role in our Torah readings for Rosh Hashanah.  Let's take a look at two of the stories we read on this Rosh Hashanah holiday and ask ourselves what the text is trying to teach us about seeing.

 

The Torah readings for Rosh Hashannah contain two stories of people who should have seen things that they missed seeing, with possible disastrous consequences. The first story is that of Hagar, who bore Abraham a child with Sarah's consent, while Sarah remained childless.  After Sarah gives birth to Isaac, however, she can no longer tolerate the presence of Hagar and her son Ishmael. Sarah demands that Abraham expel them from the family.  Abraham reluctantly listens to his wife, and sends his son Ishmael and his concubine, Hagar, out into the wilderness with provisions. But Hagar goes astray and soon runs out of food and water.  Hagar places Ishmael under a desert bush, and sits herself at a distance, she says, "So I will not need to see the death of my son." Overcome by grief and hopelessness, sitting afar, out of sight from her son, Hagar bursts into tears.  

 

 Now with Hagar sobbing and her son wailing, G-d needs to intervene. The text tells us, "God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water."  What does it mean that G-d opened her eyes and she saw a well?  Did G-d plant a well at that very moment?  Unlikely. More likely, the well had always been there.  In her distress and agitation, in her fear and in her panic, Hagar simply failed to see it.  She gave up, and settled in to die.

G-d opened her eyes, and she saw what she had failed to see the moment before.

 

 The other person in our Torah reading who fails to see what is in front of him is Abraham. G-d decides to give Abraham a test. Scriptures is silent on exactly why Abraham needs to be tested, or what will constitute passing the test.  "Take your son, your only son, the one you love, and bring him up for a burnt offering at the place that I will show you."  Abraham dutifully sets off with Isaac for the sacrifice. Isaac senses something amiss. This isn't like other times that the two of them have offered burnt offerings. "Here is the firestone and the wood, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?"  Abraham reassures his son, "G-d will see to the lamb for the burnt offering, my son."

 

When they arrive at the place that G-d had shown Abraham, Abraham methodically goes about building the altar, arranging the wood, and binding his son Isaac upon it.  No words or emotions pass between them.  Abraham reaches for the knife to slay his son.  At that moment, an angel calls from the heavens. "Do not raise your hand against the boy, and do not do anything to him."  But it is already too late.

           

It is too late because Isaac, bound on an altar by his father, the knife poised to slay him, must have been shattered for life, seeing his father acting toward him in this way.  Have you ever had someone you trust turn on you?  Could you imagine what this must have been like for Isaac, the trusting son, the precious son, the son who depended all his life on the sheltering wings of his father's protection, to see his loving father about to kill him?  Abraham went too far.  Inspired by his faith in God, eager to demonstrate his faith, he was blinded by that faith. 

 

Isaac pays the price because his father did not understand what G-d wanted of him.  Eager to prove himself to G-d, Abraham did not see what G-d was actually asking of him.  There is a midrash that imagines G-d as being incredulous over what Abraham is about to do.  The midrash plays on the ambiguity of the Hebrew words, "ve-ha-alehu sham le-olah" – "bring him up for a sacrifice".

 

The sages explain that this is like a king who wants to elevate the status of the son of his favorite servant.  He tells the servant to bring the son for dinner.  When the king arrives for dinner, he expects to see the servant and the servant's son at the table. Instead, he sees the servant at the table and the servant's son bound and gagged in the kitchen.  "I said bring him FOR dinner, not AS dinner," said the exasperated king. "I wanted to honor him, not eat him!" 

           

            Then Abraham lifted his eyes, and he saw!  Here was a ram, behind, caught in the thicket by his horns."

           

Was the ram always there?  In Abraham's grim determination to complete the mission as he understood it, did he fail to see the ram that G-d in fact had provided?  Like Hagar, did Abraham fail to see what was in plain sight the whole time?  Did Abraham pass the test, or, by not seeing what was in plain sight before his eyes, did he fail it?  Did he really think that G-d could be so cruel as to have him slaughter the very son he had promised would carry on the Jewish tradition?  Would not G-d have been disappointed in Abraham – do you really think I would ask you to do that?  After all we have been through, don't you understand me, trust me, that I would not command you to do something so irrational, so crazy, so unjust, so contrary to my Law? Abraham should have been prepared to look for the ram that G-d would provide well before he tied Isaac up in preparation for the slaughter. He told Isaac that G-d would see to the lamb for the burnt offering!!

 

Like Abraham, like Hagar, we too often fail to see what is right before our eyes.  We give up, like Hagar, oblivious to the wells of salvation within our reach. We fail to lift our eyes and see the choices that we have. We get stuck, like Abraham, with tunnel vision. We stubbornly pursue paths to disaster and we don't raise our eyes and see the options before us until it is too late.

           

 Abraham lifted up his eyes and he saw.  What did he see? I imagine that he saw much more than a ram in a thicket.  I imagine that he saw what he was doing, how he had hurt his son, the damage he was causing in his faulty understanding of God's will. I imagine he wondered to himself, "Why didn't I see that ram earlier, I could have prevented so much pain, for there was the sacrifice that I had told Isaac about, but I just couldn't see it. O, What have I put my son through because I did not see?" 

 

How many of us hurt others by unyieldingly holding on to a principle, how many of us obstinately refuse to recognize our options, how many of us fail to take paths that will avoid or at least mitigate the suffering we cause ourselves and others.   Different things blind us.  How many of us refuse to forgive, because forgiveness is seen as a form of capitulation, of surrender, of giving in. Sometimes the only thing that prevents us from forgiving others is our sense of pride. We are blinded by pride, we are blinded by our arrogance, we are blinded by our preconceived notions, by our prejudices, by our past experiences, by our needs, by our greed. 

 

 Each morning in our opening blessings we recite: "Blessed are thou, o Lord our God, who opens the eyes of the blind."  This prayer was originally meant to be recite upon awakening from our sleep, as we open our eyes again to the morning light, we thank God for the gift of sight.  But on a deeper level, I like to think that this blessing goes beyond mere physical sight, that it includes a plea for a deeper vision, a plea to remove the blind-spots in our own lives, to remove the distorting lenses before our eyes.

 

What things don't we see?  About ourselves, about our times?

We don't see the people who love us.

We don't see the good in other people.

We don't see the talents that others possess.

We don't see our own selfishness.

We don't see our jealousies.

We don't see the way we hurt others.

We don't see the good in ourselves.

We don't see our own talents.

We don't see our own strengths.

We don't see how generous we could be.

We don't see our power.

We don't see our prejudices.

We don't see our greatness.

We don't see our pettiness.

We don't see our options in life.

We don't see the suffering of others.

 

This is the profound yet realistic goal of Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur.  It is to do Teshuva, a return, a turning inward, a turning around.  The prayers in our Machzor are designed to imbue us with a perspective that might lead to action.  That perspective turns on a few grand themes.  God is the Creator of the Universe, He is majestic, his concerns transcend the petty concerns of each individual, we are nothing before Him; yet God cares for us, He is the compassionate merciful parent.   The High Holidays invite us to consider and reconsider our place in the cosmos, in our communities, in our families, to see these, as it were, from a different vantage point than we consider them during the rest of the year.  The High Holidays, whatever else they might be, are surely about helping us to sharpen our vision, to open our eyes, to consider anew, to look again, to catch a glimpse of what has grown dim or to discover an insight beyond our ken. 

           

 

 

Yom Kippur Morning: 5771/2010 Forgiving Others

Yom Kippur Morning, 5771/2010 

Forgiving Others

One of the major themes of these Yamim Noraim is asking for and granting forgiveness.  Why is it so difficult to ask for forgiveness?  It is difficult because it requires that we take stock of ourselves. It is difficult because it requires us to overcome the shame that often comes with the knowledge that we have wounded another person.  It is difficult because it calls for courage to face that other person. It is difficult because we risk the anger or rebuke that might well up when we ask the other to forgive us.  Yet, as difficult as it is to ask for forgiveness, it is also a challenging and daunting task to grant forgiveness.  This Yom Kippur, I would like to talk about forgiving others.

Our Torah teaches, "Lo Nikom ve Lo Titor" – "you shall not seek vengeance, you shall not hold a grudge".  Yet, how many of us sit here today nursing grudges, some of which go back many years.  In many cases, the person who hurt us may not even realize that in their words or in their actions wronged us. Or, perhaps they do realize they wounded us, but do not feel they have anything to ask forgiveness for.  Or, perhaps they are simply afraid to ask for forgiveness.  Or, perhaps they have already asked for forgiveness, but we could not grant it because we, ourselves, are stuck.  Nevertheless, as our life goes on, we are left with our feelings of pain, of violation, of shame and of anger.  What do we do with this affective legacy? How do we deal with it?

It is human to think that, perhaps, the solution to heal your wounded self is to get back at the offending party.  We seem to believe that we will, then, free ourselves from the grudges we hold.  Let the offender suffer so that we will feel better, becomes our motto! But the Torah forbids seeking vengeance  in the same verse it cautions us not to hold a grudge.  An ancient Chinese proverb hints at the reason: "He who seeks vengeance must dig two graves: one for his enemy and one for himself." 

Research has shown that holding on to grudges is also harmful to our well being.  Unforgiving people often experience increased anxiety, tension, and heart disease, diminished immune systems, increased psychosomatic symptoms, and poorer sleep patterns.  Forgiveness, it turns out, lowers blood pressure and heart rate, and reverses many of the deleterious health effects that come with maintaining a grievance.  Forgiveness increases ones overall sense of well being and inner peace.

The Jewish tradition is very clear that we have an obligation to forgive the person who asks for our forgiveness.   Maimonides puts it this way:  "When a person asks your forgiveness, forgive him completely and happily.  Even if he has caused you a great deal of trouble, and sinned greatly against you".  Of course, a person cannot simply ask for forgiveness and expect that it will be granted.  The person needs to understand and own up to the suffering brought about by his/her words or actions. At times, this might involve monetary compensation.  That person needs to demonstrate through their actions that they have indeed changed.   Curiously, if the person persists in asking and we consistently refuse to forgive, then the sin is ours, the wrong belongs to us.

This raises a major dilemma for us.  I recently heard an interview of a rabbi on the radio. Her father had been murdered when she was eleven years old.  She eloquently spoke of her inability, even her refusal, to forgive the culprit.  World religions teach us to be forgiving, she said.  American values emphasize that if we do not forgive we cannot move on with our lives, we cannot heal emotionally.  She recounted that once, after one of her talks with an audience whose members had lost a loved one to violence, many came up to her and expressed how healing it was to hear of her inability to forgive.  They had felt criticized by others for being unable to forgive. 

Simon Wiesenthal, the famed Nazi hunter, wrote a book called The Sunflower in 1969. Wiesenthal was born in Austria in 1908 and was imprisoned in a concentration camp by the Nazis. Eighty nine members of his family, including his mother, were killed in the camps.  One day, while working in a labor camp, he was pulled in to a hospital by a nurse. There was a badly wounded German soldier who wanted to see a Jew.  The soldier told him that he had killed many Jews but he wanted to tell him only about one particular case. He had killed a Jewish family while burning down a house they were locked in.  The soldier asked Wiesenthal's forgiveness.  The soldier sounded sincerely repentant. After hearing the story, Wiesenthal walked out of the room without saying a word. 

In the first part of his book, Wiesenthal recounts the story of his encounter with the prisoner. In the second part, he asks leading intellectuals, clergy, and ethicists whether they thought he had done the right thing.  Wiesenthal struggled with this question for the remainder of his life.

 What, exactly, is "forgiveness?"  What is it not?

 First of all, forgiveness is not about forgetting. Deep hurts cannot simply be wiped out of one's awareness.  Forgiveness is not about excusing. Forgiveness is not about denying or minimizing hurt. Forgiveness is not about reconciliation with the offender.  It does not mean we give up our right to be angry. Forgiveness does not mean we have to give up any feelings about the incident. 

Forgiveness means taking the offense seriously.  Forgiveness is one person's moral response to an injustice.  Forgiveness offers us an opportunity. Forgiveness is a gift to oneself. 

Forgiving is important because we cannot allow the actions that others took in the past to control our lives today. We cannot let injuries from times gone by affect our emotional and physical health in the present.   We cannot afford to waste our energy being trapped in anger over what others did to us years ago. Yet, how do we heal the wounds of a past that cannot change?   We are often told that we should forgive, but we are not taught how to forgive.  We are not taught the process we need to go through in forgiving others.  Here, then, are three essential elements in the process of forgiveness.

1)    Do not deny feelings of hurt, anger or shame.  Accept that another person had the ability to wound you, and did so.

2)      Try to find meaning in your suffering. Try to make sense of it.

3)      Do not remain a victim of your story, become the hero of your story. Instead of saying, "Look at what life did to me, and I'll never recover," think: "Look at what life did to me and look how well I've coped with it."

Simon Wiesenthal died in 2005 at the age of 96 in Vienna, where he lived the rest of his life.  I do not know whether Wiesenthal ever answered the question of forgiveness that he set out to explore in The Sunflower.  Yet, his life illustrates the three steps in the journey to forgiveness that I outlined above.  Wiesenthal never forgot his own suffering or the suffering of his people.  He dedicated his life not to revenge, but to justice.   He discovered new meaning in the Holocaust by understanding it not only as a particularly Jewish tragedy, but as a human tragedy as well.   In 1945 Wiesenthal left the concentration camp of Mathausen as a 97 pound walking skeleton with an uncertain future.  By the time of his death he had become known throughout the world for his deep humanity. Wiesenthal was one of the moral giants of the 20^th century.

Wiesenthal refused to remain a victim.  He became the hero of his own story, and a hero to us all.  He was able to cope with his own tragedy by overcoming events in his life that he had no way to control. 

All forgiveness is not the same.  There are different types of forgiveness.  Forgiveness depends on the nature or severity of the offense.  The ability to forgive also depends on the relationship one has with the offender.  When trust is shattered, say, between a husband and a wife, it is of a different order of magnitude than when trust is broken between two friends, or between a government and its people.  There are also different outcomes to forgiveness.  One outcome is a detached forgiveness.  In this type of forgiveness there is a reduction in the intensity of feelings toward the other, but there is no resumption of the relationship.  Another outcome is a partial forgiveness.   Here, the link between people is restored, but it is never the same.  A friendship may still exist, but it has become more distant, cooler.  Only in a total forgiveness are the wounds incurred healed completely, and the relationship fully restored. 

Forgiveness does not happen all at once.  It is a process that could take years.  Forgiveness takes time.  It is an internal process.  One can forgive, without having the second party ask for forgiveness.  The other person may never say they are sorry.  This means that there will not be reconciliation.  It means there need not be a resumption of the friendship.  Yet, it is important to know that forgiveness can happen without the connection to the other being repaired.  It takes only one person to forgive. It takes two to repair a relationship.

This Yom Kippur, may we all find a burial place in our hearts where we can lay to rest all of the wrongs that we have suffered.   May we all free ourselves from carrying around the dead weight of un-forgiven injuries.  This is truly the path to the freedom, peace and to the wholeness we all seek in our lives.  May we find our way to a forgiveness that renews us, gives us a fresh start, heals our broken hearts, and allows us to love again. May G-d grant us the courage and wisdom to forgive others, and to even forgive ourselves, when we find ourselves unable to forgive.

Rabbi Marc D. Rudolph  Congregation Beth Shalom, Naperville, IL      YK morning 5771/2010    Forgiving Others

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kol Nidre 5771/2010 A Puzzling Question

Kol Nidre 5771/2010

A Puzzling Question

 

I received the following email from a very thoughtful and sensitive young person in our congregation.  He agreed that I could share it with you this evening.  He wrote:  Rabbi, a puzzling question has been plaguing me recently.  My mother is not Jewish, but my father is. Does this make me a Jew by Jewish Law? I have had Israelis tell me I'm not, and this angers me greatly, as I openly support Israel, but if they don't think I'm Jewish, then why try? I would appreciate your response. 

This email brought back a memory from when I was eight years old.  My parents had enrolled me in the Jewish Community Center Day Camp. Every day my mother would pack me a lunch – the same lunch, I was a picky eater – peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a piece of fruit, a drink, and a package of Tandy-Cake cupcakes.  One day, a fellow camper in my group got hold of the package of cup-cakes and saw that there was no heksher on it – the sign that a product is kosher.  He began to taunt me, saying I must not be Jewish, because I was eating traif.  I went home crying to my mother.  Her solution?  The next day she sent me with the same cupcakes, this time wrapped in clear saran wrap instead of the package they were sold in.  My Judaism, and my honor, had been restored!

 Let's look at this issue from an historical perspective.  In this young man's case, his father is Jewish, but his mother is not.  In Biblical times a child would be considered Jewish if their FATHER was Jewish.  Many of the leaders of our people married non-Jewish women – Judah married a Canaanite, Joseph an Egyptian, Moses a Midianite and an Ethiopian, David a Philistine, and Solomon married women of every description. There was no formal conversion in Biblical times.  With marriage to a Jewish man a non-Jewish women joined the clan, people, and religion of her husband. Their children were all considered to be members of the People of Israel. 

That way of defining who was Jewish changed sometime in the Greco-Roman period.  No one is sure exactly when, or, for what reasons.  Some think this was due to increased intermarriage.  Others speculate that in a time when Rome ruled the Land of Israel, the people wanted to be able to accept into the community the child of a Jewish woman who had been violated by a Roman soldier. Still others believe that the Jewish people followed the practice that Romans used in defining a Roman citizen – which was according to the status of the mother. 

The definition of who was a Jew was re-evaluated beginning in 1948 with the founding of the State of Israel. The Law of Return stated that every Jew had a right to immigrate to Israel.  The meaning of "Jew" was, however, not defined.  In 1970, the law was amended and clarified.  The amendment stated that if you have one parent, or one grandparent, who was Jewish, you are considered Jewish by the State of Israel for the purposes of immigration. The one exception is the Jew who has converted to another religion.   

Then, in 1983, In the Reform movement broke with Orthodox and Conservative Judaism, and with traditional Jewish law. The Reform movement declared that a child born of one Jewish parent, whether the Jewish parent is the mother or the father, is under the presumption of being Jewish.  However, his/her Jewishness must be activated by "appropriate and timely public and formal acts of identification with the Jewish faith and people." In this understanding of Jewish identity, it is not enough to simply be born to a Jewish parent.  What confers Jewish identity is ones public behavior as a Jew: membership in a synagogue, circumcision, a Jewish education, support for Jewish causes, bar and bat mitzvah, not following any other religion, attending High Holiday services, to name a few of these public acts. Your living of a Jewish life publically, within community, bestows your Jewish identity.  The Reconstructionist movement has followed this line of thinking in defining who is a Jew.

Last semester, I taught a course titled Introduction to Judaism at North Central College in Naperville.  The students were mostly Christian undergraduates.  Imagine my trying to explain to them Jewish identity.  "But what exactly does a Jew believe?" they wanted to know.  I couldn't blame them for asking.  After all, Christians have a definitive set of doctrines and beliefs which define their identity as Christians.  If you do not believe certain tenets of the faith, you cannot call yourself a Christian.  What about Jews? – consider this story:

In the 1920s a Jew travels from his small Polish shtetl to Warsaw. When he returns, he tells a friend of the wonders he has seen:  "I met a Jew who had grown up in a Yeshivah and knew large sections of the Talmud by heart.  I met a Jew who was an atheist.  I met a Jew who owned a large department store with many employees.  I met a Jew who was a communist."

"So, what's so strange?" the friend asks. "Warsaw is a big city. There must be a million Jews there."

"You don't understand," the man answers. "It was the SAME JEW." 

My students struggled all semester to try to wrap their minds around the definition of a Jew.  I wrote a rap song just to help them understand it:

Modern Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Reconstuctionist,

Renewal, Hassidic, Haredi, athiest,

agnostic, socialist, communist, cultural,

religious, Zionist, secular, traditional,.

Yiddishist, Hebraist, Renewal, pluralistic

Throw in unaffiliated just in case ya missed it …….

 

So what is a Jew?  Having explored this from an historical perspective, let us look at it from an ethical point of view. A Jew is someone who feels responsibility for other Jews. A Jew is someone who chooses to be Jewish. A Jew is someone and who carries out the Jewish mission, and lives their lives according to the values of the Jewish people.  Let us look at each of these in a little more detail. 

First, a Jew is someone who feels responsibility for other Jews:  Several years ago the synagogue I was serving received a threat on a Shabbat morning. That very morning, a certain middle aged man, a member of the congregation, attended services.  Since he usually did not attend services on Shabbat morning, I asked him, "Do you have a yahrzeit this morning?"  "Rabbi," he said, "I heard about the threat to our synagogue. If our synagogue was going to be attacked, I was going to be here." 

There is a saying among our people. "Kol yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh" – all of Israel is responsible for one another.  My welfare depends on your welfare.  When Jews in other parts of the world suffer, I too suffer.  When you are in danger, I am in danger. When you are not free, I am not free. 

Second - A Jew is someone who chooses to be Jewish:  Up until modern times, Jews who were born and lived in Christian or Muslim lands had their identity assigned to them by the majority culture.  A Jew had to live in a certain section of the city, had to work in certain occupations and not others, might be required to wear special clothing or badges identifying them as Jews.  One could literally not survive outside of the Jewish community as a Jew.  Today things are quite different. One might say that the essential defining action of a Jew today is that he or she chooses to be Jewish.  Judaism is no longer a destiny into which one is born and cannot escape.  Being a Jew today requires a conscious choice.

Third -- A Jew is someone and who carries out the Jewish mission: Let us look back to G-d's first words to Abraham.  On sending Abraham into the world, G-d said, "Lech-L'cha -- Go forth -- from your land and from your place of birth to the land which I will show thee … and you shall be a blessing."  Abraham and Sarah were not sent off to a new Garden of Eden, to start a new kind of human being who would then live their lives in accordance with G-d's will.  They were sent out into the world as it was, to be a blessing to those around them, and ultimately to the world.  They were sent on their journey, so that they could teach the world about G-d.  They were sent to proclaim to all people G-d's concern for the weak, the hungry and the defenseless.  To be a Jew is to be like Abraham and Sarah, absolutely committed to helping others, to showing compassion and to working for justice.  To be a Jew is to live up to the cherished values of Chesed, kindness, and Tsedakah, righteousness. To be a Jew is to be a blessing; not just to your family or to your fellow Jews, but to be a blessing to all people, throughout all time.

The young congregant who I introduced to you at the beginning of this talk felt demoralized by the comments of some of his peers.  "If they don't think I am Jewish," he thought, "Why should I bother supporting Israel?" This is an understandable reaction to an assault on ones identity, indeed, ones very sense of self.  The solution, however, is not to withdraw in pain and anger and give up.  We must not allow others to define us. The solution is to fight back, to proudly declare that you are a Jew and that Israel is also your heritage.  You are not alone.  The majority of American Jewry stands behind you, and is fighting that battle, too.   We will prevail, however, only if we care enough to struggle for what is ours as well.

Let this be a wake-up call for us.  We American Jews are trying to be more inclusive in our understanding of the Jewish community. We are trying to expand the tent under which our community dwells. On the other hand there are those in Israel, who are seeking to define that community ever more narrowly.  This threatens to alienate American Jews from Israel, especially our young.  Gone are the days when Israel has an automatic claim on the allegiance of American Jewry.  If Israel wants a privileged place in our hearts, then Israel must be a place where pluralism reigns. Israel must become a country where all streams of Judaism are accorded recognition and respect.  Israel must place the spiritual welfare and unity of world Jewry above the expediency of power and narrow interests of politics. Israel must be a place that all Jews can call home, a country where all Jews can feel accepted for who they are.  If Israel is to become that place, it will need our involvement, our commitment, our passion, to bring it about.  Why try?  The future of the Jewish people depends on it.

Nitzavim -- Who's Doing the Choosing?

Next week we will celebrate Rosh Hashanah, with its stirring and evocative prayers and melodies.  In our Amidah prayer we will add the verses "zachrenu le hayyim, melech hafetz bahayyim, vchatvenu besefer hachayimm"  -- Remember us for life, sovereign who desires life, and inscribe us in the book of life."  The imagery of a "Book of Life" in which G-d inscribes us for the next year comes from the Talmud.  There a Rav Kruspedai says in the name of his teacher, Rabbi Yochanan, that there are three books opened in Heaven on the New Year – one for the thoroughly righteous, one for the thoroughly wicked, and one for those in between.  The thoroughly righteous are inscribed immediately in the Book of Life, the thoroughly wicked in the Book of Death, and those who are neither thoroughly righteous nor thoroughly wicked have their fate suspended until the Day of Atonement, when G-d decides their fate.

Now that simple equation, the righteous live for the next year, and the wicked die in the next year, doesn't conform to our experience in life, where the righteous sometime die young, and the wicked sometimes live long lives.  Our Torah reading this week points us in a different direction when considering what it means to be inscribed in the Book of Life.  In our Torah reading , G-d tells us, "I place life and death before you, blessing and curse.  Choose life, in order that you and your children may live."

What is the difference between what the Talmud, in the name of R. Yochanan, is teaching, and what the Torah is teaching?  In the passage of the Talmud, it is G-d choosing and inscribing us for life or death.  In the Torah, each individual gets to choose, between the options that G-d sets out before him or her – life and blessings, death and curses.  

Then our Torah portion, in the very next verse, goes on to define what "life" is.  "To love the Adonai  you G-d, to pay attention to G-d's voice and to cling to it.  Ki Hu Hayyecha ve'orech yamecha  -- for G-d is your Life and the Length of your Days.

To choose life, therefore, means to choose a life of Torah, of studying G-d's word, of living one's life according to our understanding of what G-d wants of us.  "Life" here means "spiritual life", not physical life, certainly not "length of days."  Without a spiritual life we are like the dead.  Our Torah "is a tree of life to those who hold fast to it." (Proverbs 3:18)  It is by holding on to our Torah that we inscribe ourselves in the Book of Life.  By attaching ourselves to our Torah, we gain a sense of purpose in life. To live with a sense of purpose, to feel that one has fulfilled ones life's destiny, is indeed a blessing.   Without it, life threatens to be aimless and without meaning, a true curse, a spiritual death.  After all, it is not the length of days that we are here on earth that matters, but the use we make of the days we are granted.

Shabbat Shalom

Renewing Ourselves

 

In the August 7 edition of the New York Times, G. Jeffery McDonald, a minister in the United Church of Christ serving a congregation in Swampscott, Massachusetts, wrote a guest editorial on clergy burnout.  Yes, he wrote, clergy work too hard, and therefore are prone to burnout.  But he felt there was a more fundamental problem.  Congregants, he wrote, resist the efforts of the clergy to help them to grow spiritually.  There is congregational pressure on the minister "to forsake his highest calling." Congregants are more interested in clergy who entertain them than those who edify them.  "As religion becomes a consumer experience," he writes, "The clergy become more unhappy and unhealthy."  (You can read the full text of the article at   http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/08/opinion/08macdonald.html?hp)

The editorial received a number of interesting responses from readers.  One responder wrote that, in his opinion, the problem of clergy burnout was related to the loss of belief, among clergy and their congregants,  "in the fundamental narratives of Christianity and Judaism, the biblical concepts of divinity in relation to humanity."  He advocated a radically revised theological perspective that would respond to the radically new conditions in which we live.  Another responder put it more bluntly, arguing that instead of blaming congregants for being obtuse, we would more likely find the source of the problem in the irrelevant teachings of the church or synagogue.  

The letter that rang true to me was written by Bonnie Anderson, an ordained minister and the President of the House of Deputies of the Episcopal Church.  She wrote that the source of clergy burnout was the provider-consumer paradigm that many Houses of Worship have.  In this model, the clergy are seen as "providers" and the congregants as "consumers" of services: 

"Ministry is not solely the work of professionally trained clergy. Rather it is a shared enterprise in which lay people are equal partners. Clergy burnout occurs because both parties lose sight of this fact. The result is clergy who believe that they must meet everyone's needs while playing the role of a lone superhero, and members of the laity who are either infantilized or embittered because they cannot make meaningful contributions to their church."

As we enter this New Year, it is timely to take stock of ourselves and ask how members can help renew our community and take more ownership for having their needs met.   Congregation Beth Shalom is already pretty much a shared enterprise where members are equal partners.  However, we are always in need of congregants to step forth and read torah, teach a course, visit the sick and homebound, deliver a sermon, run a program, or otherwise share in the wonderful enterprise that is Congregation Beth Shalom.  Doing so will strengthen and renew us all.

Shana Tova

 

 

 

Parasha Shoftim: Community

 Parasha Shoftim: Community

This week's parasha is Shoftim.  In it, the Israelites are commanded as to what kind of institutions they will need to set up when they leave their life of desert wandering to settle in communities in the Land of Canaan.  These institutions include courts, police, armed forces and a political system with which to govern themselves.  Where-ever we Jews have wandered, and then settled, we have followed this pattern of building institutions that will nurture and support communal life.  Without those institutions there would be no community. Without Congregation Beth Shalom, Jews who lived here would be merely a collection of individuals scattered over a wide geographic area who happened to be Jewish. With the beginning of our synagogue, the Jewish Community was created. 

I was thinking about the importance of community on my vacation this summer.  I was back in Connecticut with my wife visiting our son who lives there.  I wanted to visit my former community in Amherst Massachusetts – but where would I find it?  I mean, I could drive around my neighborhood and see if any of my former neighbors were about, I suppose. But it was likely I would find no one out.  I couldn't very well visit my former place of employment, the mental health center where I worked for almost 20 years.  Sure, the institution was still there, but everyone I knew there either retired, was laid off, or otherwise moved on.   The place where I would find my community, in fact, was obvious from the start.  I would go to my former synagogue, where I had been a member for the years before I decided to study to be a rabbi.  I would go on a Shabbas morning. And, sure enough, there were 30 people there that morning who I had known for much of my adult life, who had celebrated with me, comforted me, argued with me, sang with me, laughed with me and got angry with me.  And, now they were so happy to see me, and to hear about our new life in the mid-west. 

The writer Mitch Albom, who became famous with the publication of his book Tuesdays with Morrie, recently published another book, Have a Little Faith.  In it, he returns to the Jewish community of his childhood in New Jersey. In writing about the community of his childhood,    he begins to come 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.

But, 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 don't realize what we have in our sacred community. We take it for granted, or are disappointed in its shortcomings.  But where would you come if you moved from Naperville and wanted to visit your community?  I hope the answer would be "Congregation Beth Shalom."
Good Shabbas.

 

 

 

 

How does Judaism help us become more independent in mind and spirit?

How does Judaism help us become more independent in mind and spirit?

Traditionally, after a bar mitzvah has completed the recitation of the aliyah, the father of the youngster recites a blessing known as "she-petarani", after the first major word in the prayer – "Blessed is the One who freed me (she-petarani) from the responsibility of this child."  According to Hertz, this prayer does not express the relief of a father at being freed from the care of his child, but rather the joy of the father as his child enters the community as an independent adult.  What does it mean, however, to be an "independent adult" at the age of thirteen?  One of my bar-mitzvah students years ago was troubled enough by this idea that he was compelled to remind his parents in his D'var-Torah that he would still need them during his teen-age years!   

Becoming an "independent adult" at the age of thirteen certainly does not imply financial or emotional independence at such a young age.   Rather, the bar and bat mitzvah represents an age of moral and religious independence, the age at which a young person assumes the responsibility for their moral and religious behavior.  Up to this point in their lives, the parent had the responsibility for the Jewish education of their child. From now on, it is up to the young person to make the decisions about how to pursue their Jewish education.  It is up to the young person, now, to determine how and to what extent they will fulfill their ritual obligations in their Jewish life.  Up to this point in their lives, the parents had the responsibility to guide their child in their ethical and moral life. From now on, it is up to the young person to seek moral and ethical guidance from his parents and teachers.   The young person will now join all other adults in accepting the full consequences of their own moral and ethical lapses.  They will also, of course, reap the full reward for their good moral and ethical behavior. 

Judaism, therefore, helps us to become more mindful and aware of our responsibilities as Jews  by providing a ritual, the bar/bat mitzvah, that marks the beginning of moral and religious independence.  But independence of mind and spirit has long been characteristic of the Jewish people as a whole.  After all, our people's survival  in the Diaspora as a minority for so many years has required a great deal of independence from the majority culture in which we have lived.  First of all, there was always relentless pressure upon Jews to convert to Christianity or Islam.  Resistance to this pressure required a great deal of intellectual and spiritual independence as well as physical bravery.  Secondly, Jews were not granted citizenship in the European countries in which they lived until the 19^th century.  Therefore, we were forced to set up our own communal institutions for education, taxation, justice and health and welfare to take care of the needs of the Jewish community, while the civil government of the country took care of  (or neglected) everyone else.  

In a speech before the society of B'nai Brith in Vienna in 1926, Sigmund Freud gave thanks for two characteristics that he said were due to his "Jewish nature".  "Because I was a Jew," he said, "I found myself free from many prejudices that hampered others in the use of their intellects; and as a Jew, I was prepared to take my place on the side of the opposition and renounce being on good terms with the "compact majority."  The "outsider status" of the Jew in society has thus been a double edge sword.  It has led to a great deal of prejudice and persecution as a minority.  It has also freed us to think independently and to have the courage to hold unpopular opinions, which, in the case of Freud, led to a revolution in how humanity understands itself.